When the wolf wind blows on Serifos
it leaps and yowls from no direction and all directions—
we walk through its teeth, beguiled, let it push us along
footworn hills toward the port. We stumble drunken
even before pouring the wine, lights and shadows unable
to hold themselves steady, tumble with us. Takis
clamps down the table linen but the skirt twirls up,
reveals our sleek summer legs. We order fennel
fritters, rusk salads, calamari with lemon,
bread and olive oil, feed some to beach cats
with seafoam on their paws, hold the table
down against our feral wind— we eat absurdity
with this feast. Our waiter brings us mastiha– a liquor
from crystal tears, he says, only here, he says; try it,
he says, as he pours us too much then leans against
a chair to watch us drink. The wind is in his smile.