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Mario Petrucci

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Bilancio

(Cassino, Italy, 1995)

Grandpapa - that night
you led me right up the garden
to that deckle edge of meadow,
the distant bulb dim as moonlight.
Look, you said. The field
black. Beyond, black water.
You raised both hands, embraced
an invisible horizon.
On one side, us - on the other,
Her. You think your life
is yours? Your curved finger
jabbed at earth. No more
cousins than She allows.
She gives, She takes. You slit
your throat with a thumbnail.
When I am gone, who will bury
their hands in Her?

I look again, your body
long returned to dark, the abbey
in the distance, sunset’s pink toy.
Our century closing, all its ways
to live without soil. Frighted
cultures making for water, shaking out
their coats. Now your field is this
disco by the Rapido, a town of cousins.
Their dark eyes cluster, weigh me;
casually indicate the abbey, its
fabulous mass. Great landmark.
They take a bitter. They think
their lives are theirs. All I do
is nod, I can see myself nodding
like a pack mule. They close in -
Would I come back? There are beautiful
new apartments by the German cemetery.
There are second cousins. I buy
bitters, speechless. They turn
to talk amongst themselves, the hills
swell with dark. The soil, all
around, is patient. The abbey
winks. As we leave, I bury
my hands in pockets.

 

Page(s) 47

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