Home is the sound of voices I have loved;
my mother’s French accent, asking me for lemons
to squeeze into a pot of boiling grape leaves,
her hands tattooed with their fragrance,
my grandmother’s strained whispers,
like the simmering garlic cloves,
my great uncle’s laughter, as wide
as a vineyard.
Home is the sound of voices I have loved;
my mother’s French accent, asking me for lemons
to squeeze into a pot of boiling grape leaves,
her hands tattooed with their fragrance,
my grandmother’s strained whispers,
like the simmering garlic cloves,
my great uncle’s laughter, as wide
as a vineyard.