Perception Spring 2023

Yaya
Alaina Triantafilledes
You walked alone along the side of the highway in slippers,
Brushed by the breath of passing cars, your cotton clothes rippling,
Muted and loose like skin. Like laundry walking.
I imagine you looked doughy
Too soft for the tire tracks at the gas station
But too stubborn to leave
Until my dad picked you up.
You wandered into bad neighborhoods
on nighttime strolls.
Was it aimless or purposeful?
What were you looking for?
All the things lost and losing still:
your strength, your recipes, your husband—
Did he ever emerge from the fog? Papou’s thick mustache and
aviator sunglasses,
Barely lucid eyes widening, mouth opening
at the sight of an olive
From a hospital cafeteria salad.
Do you follow Bladensburg’s cement streams
like they’ll lead you back to the shoreline of Greece?
longworth's on sunday
Isabella Brown | Film Photography
My dad says you hate it there
Someplace with white walls soaking up natural light,
Billowing curtains and twin-sized beds.
I wonder if they let you watch Greek soap operas
So you can chuckle and mumble and tsk at the screen
With your arms folded on a couch
While someone nearby tries to predict the plot based on your sounds
And the actors’ faces.
I wonder if you miss your vegetable garden
And your house and your husband
Like I miss your house and your husband
And your cooking.
106 | Perception
Spring 2023 | 107