Poems from Plunge
Plunge
February 8, 1945
Bullets strafe his P–47
as stuttering pistons bleed
a firestorm, downward spiral
a physicist would admire
yet my father always hated math.
Panic–racked
his canopy jammed
life be damned!
How many seconds left
to pull the cord?
But he’s lucky that day
free of the Jug, helluva story.
Floats in silken fall
over Lago di Garda’s
marbled edge.
Impact! Mountain rock
against tibia, femur.
Partigiani emerge
through dark forest
bundle his chute
camouflage debris.
Only my father
remains to be hidden.
The Germans, tedeschi, are
everywhere.
Night Composes Its Own Music
A rabble of hunting dogs sense
their barbed–wired boundary
breeched, become frenzied
when the motorcycles pass
as village Romeos return home,
rousing the roosters long before dawn.
Every quarter hour, church bells
punctuate my restlessness,
then a second chiming
from a lower hamlet a few minutes
later. Even Medieval monks
were spared bells between Compline and Matins.
Never mind most men have secured
their cars and scythes, that the women
have tucked their kitchens to bed.
The children are asleep, exhausted from
their chores and the television.
Even the dumb cows are finally silent,
sated from the slopes’ summer bounty.
My heartbeat is loudest of all,
longing to kiss you
without fear, the ears of villagers
sharp for new gossip,
old sins. Did the town’s ancient clerics
find sleep, the promise of everlasting life,
their comfort in chastity? Or did they,
too, succumb to desire,
rumors of the current priest and his
housekeeper, la moglia del prete,
the wife of the priest?
Why did my lover not
join me this evening?
I want the bells to stop.
I would do anything
to sleep, the night’s cruel
nocturne a tease to my flesh.
La Famiglia
La farina, le uova,
flour and eggs.
Olio, burro, sale,
pepe, rosmarino,
basilico, ragù.
Kitchen staples.
Love with a pinch
of pepper. Resentment
with spoonfuls of salt.
The yeast of tedium
rises. Resignation
stored by the kilo.
Yet sometimes
dessert,
a tiramisù,
sweetens
disappointment,
invites pleasure.