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Mario Petrucci

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Amaretti

for my father

Toadstool-tops – two, cracked as nana’s old
knee sore. And you launched one towards
the ceiling, white ridge-beam of your mouth
waiting, barely budged your chin to grind it
like a roof-tile; offered the other, pathetic
as a button on your outstretched palm. And I
snatched it quick as a whisker, bit, felt my tongue
melt caverns deep inside, release its acrid-sweet
almond adultness –
        which I dribbled out, in spite
of the almost-shake of your loaf, the high arches
of your brows. Then you tunnelled the wrapper
between fingers to roll a joke, a giant’s
cigarillo from air’s tobacco; stood it
end-first on ma’s stainless tea-tray, flicked
your flint lighter to chase the tip with flame
which seeped downwards, filled my head
with burning –
        until, at the last,
it wobbled, transfigured, a ganglion
of desire there, rose up into our cathedralled
Italian stairwell: willed-wisp of your making
who stood, an edifice of father frowning
his gargoyled wonder into mine, our wish
held up by ash, all trembling, climbing
into hallowed space.

 

Page(s) 82

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