In Greece we say ka-la, eat sandwiches
with olive paste and sun dried tomatoes,
dribble unfiltered coffee onto red tablecloths,
and debate the possibility of deterministic fate.
We are unfinished, Brianna insists,
But not forsaken, Molly replies.
I am still searching, Lindsay admits.
So where does it end? I wonder.
Since September we’ve been preserving
dead gods inside mason jars, tucking thyme
and olive branches into paper envelopes.
Nights, we curl exhausted into Apollo’s palm.
I cannot take you with me, though I try.
We must return home, chasing
the ghosts of our former lives.
Go quickly. Penelope is waiting.
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