On the wall, an old Ottoman carpet,

a white curtain over the window. Only two days ago

we arrived on a late ferry.

A man plays a bouzouki,

its name given after the Turkish word bozuk,

meaning broken. You left

with a story I still don’t understand.

In 1922, during the Greco-Turkish war,

port workers went on strike,

and the Greek government ran out of money.
An empty rattan chair.

A painting of a boat.

We went to Monastiraki, past ancient ruins

you didn’t care for, painted blue tables,

clothes hanging from balconies.

Moses was given the ten commandments on Mt Sinai,

the same mountain

where he came across a burning bush.
The room is quiet.

You left, and I didn’t get to say

farewell. No, fare well.

When the Greeks were driven out of Asia Minor,

cypress and plane trees,

women thrust on stakes.

The city of Smyrna on fire,

allied boats in the harbour.