At the port of Mytilene
cinnamon filled pockets of air float past
along the waterfront a café sells Bougatsa
made with an old recipe
known throughout the island
the man with a curled moustache cubes and covers it in spice
sweet and moist it fills my mouth
releases its sugar and I’m high
A minaret in the distance
a past place of worship
a facade remains
a tourist stop a photo op
it is empty
the call to prayer only echoes in memory
I walk along the narrow lane
through a maze of nondescript stalls
owners sit on milk crates
smoke cigarettes
sell tobacco, chocolate bars, key rings
Drachmas pass from hand to hand
A large wooden crucifix
leans sideways next to Agios Therapon
weighty in sorrow
mourners inside cross themselves
light candles, smokey and pungent
pray for healing
an astringent taste in my mouth
my lips gently touch the icon encased in glass
Faith creeps in unnoticed
wildflowers in an unkempt garden
I turn back and buy
sourdough, bitter olives, ripe tomatoes
tangy pickled vegetables and halva.
