The milk tastes off in wartime Clammy on the tongue Even when you are so distant You can hardly hear the metal bend You make galaktoboureko So thick the shape returns Wondering why Easter Falls in archaic calendars Each year on new days As if martyrdom were inexact in its demands I imagine Medea’s tears In thick and sweet and distilled stains When she learned she ate her young Time Is a wolf, you say And in one deft hand Break another egg
