Iraklio
For the Lakkos Project The ancient road ends at the fort, the sea, where urban fishermen long for a boat and a breeze. The cats have fleas and an untamed gaze, the cars squeeze through the streets, while ladies slow before too many shoe stores, passing unpicked lemons on the trees. Prayer beads click in the hands of men, the anarchists answer with graffiti. The ferry line’s “Minoan,” don’t forget. A labyrinth is part of the story. Round a corner into Lakkos and the rubble turns to murals, post-modern odes to musicians and whores, a painted shore and its sea. “The Crisis” spared the small thrills: coffee cigarettes, generosity. So we smoke too much and wake up undone from a mix of wine and raki. One day glows amber with African dust and tiny daffodils are sold in the streets. Most days, the only news I want is from the sun on the wall, the sun on the sea. Megin Jiménez February 2019 |