for Katerina Anghelaki-
The house labors in its beauty, mute
among the rows of tilled pistachios
and coppiced trunks where the dogs
roam nervously, loping to and from
the garden and sunlit tile, restless
as petty thieves.
We talk under the shattered pergola—
on the wall when light strikes, the faded
pink stucco gleams like a skinned
animal, and time bends our language,
it hangs suspended in small gestures,
in a word framed by the glare
of an empty page. A sudden quiet—
the poem rises from her fingers
like bread. Between verses, the beer
sweats amber onto the wooden table.
The pen poised, the paper blank—
like moths and night-
of the electrified night,
hurling themselves at patient street-
we confront the glaring page.
At the heat-
where the new date palms
jolt like bad grammar
against the mountainside,
a few fishermen crouch
in the lances of spare shade,
patch their yellow nets with twine.
The Gift of Experience
10th Anniversary Anthology
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Home Pond
Greece
The Poet’s Island
Stephanos Papadopoulos