Down to the Cellar
By George Kalogeris
They never said: “go down to the cellar,” when I
Was sent down there to bring something back to them.
Instead it was always: “kato sto epógio.”
Archaic the creak of floorboards under your feet;
Narrow the winding stairwell that always went dark
As the kitchen door closed behind you; pointless to reach
For the dangling string, the fixture would never be fixed;
And since there is no railing, your hand must press
Against the dank stone wall the whole way down.
To bring back what? A head of goat’s milk cheese?
A jar of dark red mávrodáphne wine?
That paleolithic drill that turned like a winch?
They never said to me: “go down to the cellar.”
Instead it was always: “kato sto epógio.”
And so I go, back down through the Greek, as if
I could bring them what their shades still need, to speak.
Copyright © 2020 by George Kalogeris.