by Andrea Potos

Because I don’t know the finishing stitch
for this shawl, I end up at the chain bookstore
under florescent lights, ploughing through
Crocheter’s Companion, Easy to Make Crochet.
What I want is my grandmother
sitting beside me on her Duncan Fyfe sofa.
I want her alive, calling me 
Koukla, her needleworked pillows 
nested on the cushions,
in air infused with the scents from the open doorway
of her kitchen--olive oil, cinnamon, 
oregano, the promise
of abundance.
I need to see her hands once more, age-spotted
and nimble, the fluid motion of her fingers
as natural as singing 
or breathing, her voice telling me
how I can
complete this piece without her.