Lucky in
Πάφος (Paphos)
Two hours’ drive
to the Tomb of Kings
where golden icons with
hollow eyes
and faded dolphins mosaics
provide hiding places
for the ancient phantoms
who follow flesh and breath
through twisting corridors
and cavernous halls.
In a two-table café
an excited old man
in faded blue and patches
of drying cream paint
too eager to show off his
sons
pushes away the cigarette
smoke,
the briny sea air,
the stinging of onions and
curry
to offer halloumi and
souvla
and zivania, a drink that
bites your tongue,
a cannon ball in your
belly.
Too late to catch a bus
two thumbs hang in the air
until a dusty, gritty car
pulls up.
“Nicosia?” we ask.
“Larnaca.”
His reply drips down his
beard.
“Palestine small English.”
As if he’s practiced for
this moment.
The door closes behind me.
We can get home from
Larnaca.
by Maggie Myers
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