From da L’ACERO ROSSO

THE RED MAPLE

A Dream of Sicily


I desire odors
of the Mediterranean.
A spicy palate and
a thirst to drink.
Unblackened stones:
immaculate walls
pour l'âme.

Mother Courage

I’m figuring you bent over
in high grass, in high rain,
boots on your feet and
umbrella over your head.
You peer if she’s there.
Maybe she’s still
alive.

In the Dark

I am born
in a new place,
where a fresh shadow’s
cast by the red maple
that you may
remember. My last life
remains, unmaimed.
I bless you again,
with no eyes, now,
and no hands.

The Golden Cage

When I think of the times I’ve followed
with my fingers the profile of a shoulder
that I know, where a bone
juts out slightly at the end
of a slow slant.

When I think of the times I’ve felt
those fingers grope for the hip
where he loved to rest his hand
in the fine season.

I cannot count them anymore. The times,
I mean, that I have wanted you
so badly my body got infected.
It had recognized itself, its health,
in that gait of yours, so singular,
a bit inclined.


Remembrance


They are hooks
that tear one’s heart
in the month of March.
Notes that replace memory
with memory. The odor
of the different yet same
air of another place.
The temporary light,
that ruthlessly unveils
the wounded flesh.
There’s no bottom
to the grief of March.

By Grace

It is that hour, now, after dinner,
in that air, all wet, of July –
that hour to pedal
down Blackstone Blvd.

It won’t come back. And so what
if it does not?

I was certain of the breeze
at the root of my hair,
sure of the pink of the Chinese
cherry tree. I like pedaling,
it seems. I started
this way, and knew this leaf
and others like it would come.

I’ve been happy
and it’s not enough.
Life must have
a chance of evil.


Providence, Rhode Island

The Fine Because

You have mountain lakes
of a color I didn’t see
but I remember from a distance
with eyes affixed to darkness.
Water I couldn’t touch
because it was not there
but is perennially bathing me
icy, with no haste or awareness.
Sometimes it does not speak
to us—the gray that’s burnished
by the blue of sky and lakebed
—and we’re left on the bank.
We abandon the idea
of swimming.

Janus

The body doesn’t always feel
itself, but sometimes yes,
it does. It’s either ancient
wounds or usual flaws.
They strain the scars
and if they open, lo
a face, and, lo,
a mistake. But they
don’t look that bad—
not even when there comes
the sun to lighten them
and warm the body up,
that does not look at them
again because it has
so much else to do.