genesis 11
The bricklayers were mixing clay when they saw the old man.
Uncle, are you lost?
Come, share our shade and figs.
Tell us,
who are your sons?
I have no sons. Why do you build this tower?
To reach heaven, answered the bricklayers.
The old man looked down at his fruit.
You cannot eat of seed and flesh both,
he said, and left.
The bricklayer looked at his fellow. We’ve come this far. Might
as well see her through, his fellow replied, and smiled.
όχι ακόμη, έχω πολλά περισσότερα να σας πω
said the bricklayer and wept.
fruit
A few too many cold nights
stunted the mandarine tree in your γιαγιά’s garden,
and only three little orange bellies bloomed.
One fell and was eaten by possums, but
the second and third held well.
You pushed your finger through the peel:
flesh soft and wet as the inside of a cheek.
The immigrant’s fruit,
half and half again.
You brought the orange quarter-moon to your lips
and winced when it was sour.
είναι καλό?[1] asked your γιαγιά.
Gala, Gala, Gala,
like you were calling down those birds with the blushing chests and grey wings.
[1] Is it good?