July 20th in Kato Chorio, Crete

Mind your way through the burning
asphalt—you, like a cat on hot bricks—
waltzing through the pebble-woven alleys.
The scorching meltemi must feel like
a foreign caress after so many years away.

Αποθανατίζω used to mean warding off
the death of memories, but no one told you
what happens to them in your new mother
tongue: there, pictures only survive in captivity.

So come take a picture of the fuchsia
blossoms of the bougainvillea
with your black & white film,
you, paparazzi, lurking behind every corner,
like grandmas spying on Americans.

They’re always asking: Are you, by chance,
here to build another villa next to
our abandonment? These ruins were once home
to those who left. Take a seat, don’t mind the shouting.

A game of tavli has heated up at the central kafenio.
The sweet acidity of orange juice sticking
to your palate used to be free when your
grandfather was here, (winning every game).

But you can always pay for it
by telling me everything:
the future, the present, even the past.
We’ll tsk & shake our head either way.

The ringing in your ears is not unlike
an echo of the church bells; the cross
reflects the sunset from the top of the hill.
Today’s the prophet’s anniversary,

the one whose name resembles the Sun.
He must have said you’d be here.
Or else, what other reason could you have
to attend our annual festivities? How else

should we name you then but witch,
playing tricks like an alley cat for
some crumbs of memory or sympathy?

No light but a torch to prove you
belong. Do not dare stray too far.
You, of all people, should know
that strays, like witches, burn.

Maria Petasi is an undergraduate student in the School of English at Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. In the recent years, her ever-growing fondness for poetry prompted her to explore the field of literary translation and, more specifically, its interdisciplinarity with gender and social studies.