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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 7, Number 1, March 2013


Dru Philippou
Taos, New Mexico, USA


After we left the island for the big city, Mother and Father refused to talk about the past. Yet, there was a sense, Mother, you longed for the homeland. On market days, you often came home with a bag of figs. When done with housework, you'd sit on the porch peeling the violet-tinged fruit, then gaze into the melting shadows as if countless trees were bearing plump little globes. Cradling the bowl you'd whisper, sýko, sýko.

stolen fig
memory's shape
in my hand

Author's Note: Sýko means fig in Greek.



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