Yiayia’s kitchen is pistachio green. Her hands smell like time. She makes us sit with our hair braided together, ear to ear. She makes us coffee from the remnants of an ancient tree. It still speaks to her in sediment, prophetic hieroglyphs on chipped china. A skull brews in the soup she hand-feeds us. The bones are plentiful. We sink canines into them and suck out rivers and lakes and oceans. She never tells us what she sees in our cups and we never ask. Dessert is rosewater loukoumi dusted with lunar soil.
Studies Show Crows Enjoy Bebop
the biggest fan of our band is a crow
he comes to see us every night
in a suit and tie and little hat
he drinks a martini by the bar
caws with every crash of the cymbal