By Anastasia Vassos
The island holds dust like a bowl,
but not for long. When the wind cracks,
the sand snakes. The priest’s shutters
are open. The rooster blusters
the morning sun.
In the center of the powdery town
a modern-day Sisyphus ascends
to the Virgin Mary’s church on hands
and knees – the bone he has to pick
with God between his teeth.
Dust in his lungs, his coarse face
is flooded blood-hot, a scrim of heat
rising off his back like a mirage.
We walk the sandy roads hand
in hand and observe this sacred contour.
We stop for bread, tomatoes, cheese.
A bottle of water. We bow our heads
having never been hungry.