I knew the Minoans were real
the day I saw the hibachi.
Five skewers across stone racks,
decoratively carved with oxen,
to cook supper.
An April day like any other.
Wine and kabobs on Santorini,
A new fresco, paint still fresh;
a boy with a dozen fish,
a woman with hoop earrings,
magically sleek, smiling,
dressed in vivid colors,
buried like a time capsule,
under thirty feet of volcanic ash
in 1625 BCE.
Resist the lie!
The easy falsehood,
that those who are refugees
of wars, or gangs, or rising tides,
are the problem.
That those with meat on the hibachi,
and new artwork on their walls,
when the earth shakes where they live,
and the sky turns black,
are somehow less human
than I.
BK – Summer, 2024
