This piece was first published in Quarto’s 2023 Spring Print Edition.
Illustration by Ishaan Barrett
Today we are unlike ourselves— tight-lipped
and silent. I cannot stop remembering
the grape vine, that one
winding the wood fence in front of your building.
So extensive and loved,
bulbous and purple that my eyes couldn’t see
small spiders roaming.
If you hold contempt for me I’d understand,
in the end where was I but inside
your oiled mind, within your name.
And you look beautiful today in your blue dress,
you are not so cold and hard until
I kiss your face, see
your reddening skin between waned wrist-
bones. Those greying spots
on your hand. I know you
are somewhere bathing me, tucking your fingers
in flour, parting my hair
with the blue comb. Giving yourself
again to soil. You were always living
like that, preserving yourself
for someone else.
Baba had said don’t touch the bunch
in your colander. But I ate the grapes,
you know. I would eat anything
even if I wiped your kiss off
my cheek—
you can’t feel
it now, my brown lipstick on yours.
Eleni Mazareas (she/her), BC '25, is an English and history major concentrating in imperialism and empires. She loves poetry, joy, and a good bowl of Puffins cereal. You can find her on instagram @elenitsssa.