poetry

Seed

I love this story—

My great grandmother was my great grandmother in Amygdaliés.

My grandmother always knelt in the chamomile with her.

They loved the small golden flowers in the field—

This is not a story,

more the truth and a memory,

a eulogy of sorts by the time I arrived

something replenished when up to my knees

here in oregano and lemon balm

now a hint of chamomile.

‍

My great grandmother. My great grandmother in Amygdaliés.

My grandmother always knelt in the chamomile with her.

This is not a story,

more the truth.

They pressed deep into the forgiving soil

a walnut seed in the far corner of their land.

Then left in 1916 in February on the SS Vasilef Constantinos

                                               for America.

‍

If I say walnut and seed I mean

great grandmother and grandmother

now an eighty-foot walnut tree

in June. It’s my birthday.

They embroidered onto their hems

their home's flowers, buried in the earth,

buried with their hands also, some gold,

shaped as a bracelet and two rings;

‍

My great grandmother was my great grandmother. In Amygdaliés.

My grandmother always knelt in the chamomile with her.

If I dig with their intent, ecstatic beneath this tree, stopping

only to breathe their breath as a calm catches

the encrusted, pale yellow of them—

‍

then please consider this:

‍

here is the love

poem with the seed,

the source of what was

buried and what was dug

what is nutrient

protein, starch, their oils now

held by the walnut’s bark.

I prepare

‍

not only my lips with balm but my spot on my earth:

which I already know

its embryo

the interior greenery of us:

‍

My great grandmother died at 42 with a swollen belly.

My grandmother died in a hospital of heart failure at 94.

They will always be

heartwood, and so I lean into

‍

the bark now and the stillness.

The walnut bark, it reduces aching in the heart.

In the story,

later in the day there is rain.  

They exhale once

more. I inhale.

We pause,

of the earth,

‍

briefly.

‍

Published in Goat, Goddess, Moon and The Creative Process: Arts & Literary Journal

*

Kaliméra, Kaliméra

‍

Clean white satin, white

cake, tenderly-torn whisper

this gift is for you.

Pearled barley, village

honey, pistachios, and

walnuts, the spoon raised

to lips. The sound − the sound

begins to pronounce −

Katerína. Once.

‍

Published in Goat, Goddess, Moon and Café Review

*