Winter had come to Nicosiaand as the last daylight wentbraziers flared on the sidewalk.In some language of Crimea—or Medea—the men’s heads benttoward an ancient clock. Was it a dream? I ate potatoes“fluffy as a buttered cloud,”and sensed the red earth as “read,”like Aphrodite’s lips in the throesof love: she mouthed aloudthe tale of grave Adonis’s […]
Source : Potatoes and Pomegranates
