Just Like My Ancestors
A poem I wrote as part of my Diaspora Grief series.
I am living on the land
where the pulse of Zeus’ anger
runs through my body
before I see his lightning bolt
where I feel Persephone
descend into the underworld
as the crisp winter air
penetrates my bones
transfixed by the intoxicating
scent of orange blossoms
that accompany her return
in the spring
I feel the rays of the sun
heat my skin as
Apollo’s chariot carries
it across the sky
where I can hear Dionysus
and his nymphs frolicking
in the forests
carried like whispers
on the winds
I stand on the land
where my ancestors
greeted Selene every night
as she shone above
fragrant olive fields
I understand the language
of the fig trees
as they ready their fruit
and pick ripened morsels
each summer with gratitude
just like my ancestors did
I am one of those
who did not speak
I am speaking now
Thanks for reading The Liminal Compass. This is the first essay in a series about Diaspora Grief and reclaiming Hellenic heritage. Subscribe for free to receive new posts. To support my work with a paid contribution, click here.
