You were packing socks when the journalists
came knocking. Warm, soft wool
or its memory kept your hands from shaking.
Roll up, fold down.
They wanted your children first, then your husband,
finally you –
laid out another blanket,
three plates, questions
skittered to you,
watching as if the camera picking up your movements
could tether the walls’ billow, could recall a house
or sheepskin-lined boots, wolfish cries
and, callous, women streaming across the street.
You look towards the interpreter, who shakes her head,
as if you’d been betrayed.
Souda, Chios, August 2016