γιαγιά’s leeks

i woke up tomorrow morning

and γιαγιά was on her knees in the kitchen

picking up the leeks that smacked on the tiles

bouncing across the floor and into my flowered hands

it smells salty as i look again

and she’s chopping the leeks

and stuffing the zucchini flowers

i eat thin slices of her fresh bread

honey dripping down my chin

my first girlfriend i called

honey in greek her name

was emily and the greek word

μέλι didn’t fit at all

she was sharp and sarcastic

but she was sweet to me

when she gave me little

notes ripped in class and spun

into ringed circles and i thought

they looked like the leek rounds

γιαγιά cuts into her pita

i don’t remember the last time i cried

but the onions make my eyes wet

the chopping sounds like a drumbeat

i time the rhythm of this poem to

euros are like notes are like leeks

stolen from μπαμπάς’s wallet 

and used by old men and small children

to snort lines off the toiletbacks

until they are hungry for nothing

and we sit around a table

none of us hungry

none of us eating

all of us speaking

none of us listening

and i unfold the scrolls of leeks

on the paper pita plates

—January 2021, Stanford, CA