and my eyes and stomach
are filling again
with feta, and olives, and wine,
I will be asking myself,
"Now. Where do I put the olive pits?"
And even this
does not seem
a very big problem.
The mosquitos are
few but fast
on chios.
They train by playing chicken,
with the planes
at Athens Airport.
Just after dawn,
the marble is cool,
on the patio floor,
brightness is blinding,
cicadas sing.
Across the cove,
the land is misty.
A finger of shining light,
marks the horizon.
The night has left no moisture,
on books and toys
left from the evening's play.
Another day has begun
on Chios.
This week, Paris,
next week, Spain.
"Soon I'll have to work for a few days. Then
we'll meet in Santorini,
and go to the cafes.
We're Americans. We can do anything we want."
says Nick the Greek
.
Captain Angelo's house'
is white, everywhere:
thick plaster walls,
thick plaster steps,
and white railings:
a bright, flowering plant
on every landing.
the white steps climb the hill,
seeming part of it,
and flowers are everywhere.
Just below the vaulted ceilings,
windows, like portholes,
look out on the sea,
and stories of "Tourkish" pirate ships
don't need to be told:
the sea tells the tale,
in its own language,
and stars vie with the blinking lighthouse light.
|
Across the cove,
the land is clean,
(cleaned by centuries
of goats,)
and the colors are white and blue,
and brown and blue.
Roses bloom everywhere,
and the air is fragrant.
In the restuarant, the tables are empty,
except for ours.
Ours is full: with octopus,
and deeply fried, small fish.
"pick it up. And eat it.
Like eating popcorn, or chips."
There is squid, tender and sweet,
and "shrimp of the Gods"
flanked by salad, red, white and green
always tomatoes, always zucchini, always olives,
always feta cheese,
wet, and shiny,
with olive oil, bringing health and well-being,
after a swim,
in the salt sea.
On the road,
cars honk before each curve,
giving warning of speed and daring.
the hills are steep,
the curves are sharp,
and coming into town,
three one-lane roads meet.
Three cars stop abruptly.
Not knowing what to do,
they wait.
Tonight, the moon
is a young woman,
a slim curve,
hanging over the barren hill,
on Chios.
She says, "Watch me,
for tomorrow I will rise from the sea
a great, gold disc.
I come, and come again."
Yesterday, the boat sailed,
across the sea, to Cesme,
Where, at the end of the coffee,
even the mud tastes good.
In Cesme, the shops
are lined with carpets
such as one can only believe
in a dream.
the shimmering silk
takes one away
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