Amela Kovacevic

Apparitions

At the sofra sat a group of men

eager but waiting; two drank

black (sugared) coffee, one whiskey

and water. I stood

with the women who carved this

sofra as surprise or celebration,

sweating, singing, swiftly sending plates

out of smoked sausage, cheese, pastries,

peppers, and the entire Summer garden.

Eating, they laughed at

flashbacks here and there

of empire and fairytales

and shared cheap tobacco

and memories of warfare.

I see them all now

at night between the hours

which tend to lie to eyes

as apparitions of a war

never understood.