When the Bookstore Opens for the Day

I stream inside, the full morning
sun is everywhere on the new fiction
and nonfiction tables, the poetry aisle
all the way at the back, beyond
psychology and philosophy, is empty, all mine.
I stand in stillness
in front of the maple shelves
remembering days I dipped into
my Yaya¹s pantry when I lived
in the duplex apartment above her.
I peered up at her thick cream-
colored shelves stuffed with jars
of honey and sesame seeds,
the macaronada for our Sunday suppers,
the miniature bottles of anise,
almond oil for kourambeides;
and, beside me, under the wide window
that opened out onto her yard
where our clothes flapped on the lines,
the row of bins filled with white
and golden semolina flour
for her neverending bread.

—Andrea Potos, Madison, WI