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POETRY By: Susan Briante, Peter Covino, Albert DeGenova, LindaAnn Loschiavo, and Port of
Entry: Nuovo Orleans* for Alfonse Only difference is I don’t think he sings just prays to some Christ that bleeds. Got hair as black as grease and skin that’ll never come clean and eyes you don’t like lingering on what you’d call yours. Got the brains of a nigger cause he works for negro wage. Got the strength of a nigger when you got him on the chain. Got the same damned look of a nigger when you string him up from a tree and he hangs limp and gray like moss. The Poverty
of Language I. If a mother
were to say: “I pray to
the Virgin you die of AIDS.” You see I’m
doing it again, shutting you
out. “I should
have eaten you at birth.” This
language is wealth, a red dress, an
injection. II. Father spoke
to us in erudite
Italian: pederasta—pederast, infangare—to muddy, to soil as in
ruining one’s name. Mother spoke in a strange
combination of denial and Southern
Italian dialects: femminiello, she’d call
me femminiello, she’d call
my sister femminiello, my father femminiello—one-half little girl, one-half
little faggot. Reading
Grandma’s Obituary DeGENOVA Stella DeGenova the
name is my sister’s (in
the Italian tradition first
daughter named after father’s mother) that
cold thought leaves quickly beloved wife of the late Joseph my
brother had never felt the word “dead.” Sitting
with my arm around his seven-year-old
shoulders “Grandpa
died” and somehow the word’s finality
brought tears, an
instinctive response. dearest mother of Anthony (Carmela),
Joseph (Catherine), Mario (Josephine), and Albert Albert
the black sheep spent
his mother’s tax money didn’t
face her for two years she
always asked me “Howsa you fadda?” looking
at the floor I’d answer “Busy.” After
five heart attacks and a stroke finally
he came watched
her die, slowly, day by day— good
Italian mother, she forgave her baby. loving grandmother of eleven,
great-grandmother of six she
could have listed all of our names and
birthdays, and spouses— she
was proud of her memory. She
remembered Donna too, (my
mother, missing from the obituary) a
daughter for twenty years then
gone in her family’s only divorce (my
father the black sheep) something
Grandma could never understand I’ll
remember Grandma cutting roses in
front of the big house on 51st Street where
I’d pick grapes in the backyard. And
the wine (sometimes good, sometimes bad) was
made on her birthday, a
tradition now gone. Dante’s
Daughter in New York Reminded Dante sang in Paradise But didn’t go that far, we virgins stayed Pacing a frayed, uneven chastity, Relentlessly seductive, taught to make Males roar, outraged by feminine
restraints. Denied, zoned, sex can breed the
dangerous, Whose offspring night protects. It’s
too big—sex— To
leash, retrain. Like a lion, sex eats well— Though
not dependent on a nose or taste. Dante, his spirit safe in upper air, Knew sex as human-headed lion-king, Vacationed in its sway, attributing To mankind sundry sins, his exiled souls Tormented by their tendencies, prefixed In his nine circles’ time. More
interesting Were images (so strict and strange) of
Hell Held in place, squared against laced
Paradise, Adored in its attenuated state. All books are like his souls: no greater
Hell Is there than one’s life’s acts remaining
lost— Or lioned lifeforce forced asleep or
caged Through tyranny of norms. Papavero, L’Altissimo: guardate l’addio Della figlia a sua castita.* Like your vernacular, still brutally Virgin when carried by you, I’d remained Unformed from burning pure, not purified Like Beatrice, God’s celestial roommate,
framed As muse, whose goodness light projects
reborn. Adored, in exile from my body—pale, Unknown, remaining lost—I tore the fruit From Eden’s tree, explored its open
flesh, My red machinery of darker faith. The lion had caught up with me. Hell
merged With Paradise, bound circling my mind, Transforming lions in this universe, Not petrified eternity, white realm Manipulated, cold controlled by fears. Instead Manhattan’s morning comes across, Puts spin on arrogance called “chastity.” Warm ribbed delight now snakes along my
walls, Joy howling, prowling under sayables. Quick love-jabs clear life’s registered
mistakes I’d customized and justified too long. God is, by definition, Unsurprised. He knows New York produces novel turns In minds. Become its rivers. Love jumps
in. Then someone’s daughter joins with
someone’s son. Their union night projects as kingdom
come. Pope Pius X The bellhop to a
dying heritage He has become, no
room left for Latin In Catholic schools,
the choir loft, or Mass. In easy-going Italy,
as Pope He made priests
swear, denouncing heresy Tagged “modernism,”
cupping oaths in print Like a prize for
Mother Church, its dusty breath On mirrors showing
some reality, Bits clouded but
admiring. The
war Exploded myths,
though, rinsed away beliefs. Perhaps Italian
priests began to think: “Why must we love
what’s failed us?” Mother Church, Once chiseled out of
rock, got smooth-hinged change, Loud modernism like
strays wanting in. Thin cushions of religious ritual Were junked by Vatican I and then II, St. Christopher and other saints
tossed out. Newly ordained tried hefting time-worn
weight, Testing its grip. Tradition throbbed.
It could Still manage; it was strong enough to
lead. The calendar demanded closings now, Invasions by time’s plows. The Vatican Beatified Guiseppe Sarto (named Pope Pius X), then canonized this man. Paesano,
chiseled out of dreams: Amen. Mater
FuriosA A madman fried Italian peppers here On mother’s floor. Imagine red and green Italian peppers lying door to door. “I’ll clean them up,” I say till she’s
relieved. My noise unrolls sweet fictions she can
screen Through morphine. Playing
she’s an actress scripts Our
mock reality. We call this place “A
dressing room,” her home “a trailer” parked Aside
the set. She’s idle now because It’s
needed—her director will demand That
shot where she looks rested. It’s agreed She’ll
close her eyes while I beat grief from rugs. Making
a comeback newly patient, she Extends
her arms: to death, disorder, me. E si riuniscono, questi vecchi And they assemble, these old men this
day, Prepared for preservation of respect. Economy of passion scaled correct For male Americans will be outweighed By sons of Italy who’ve come to lay Il nonno mio to eternal rest. July air tense with recollections checks The speed of prayer in Latin’s cushioned
sway. Too young for gravesites, I imagine this, His shadow far too heavy for their praise To tow where I won’t follow. Wind whips
up My want. He can’t be gone! Sleep is dismissed, Distracted. Night turns dangerous, grief
glazed, Fears filed
beyond where living souls can touch. Called Home Suddenly to be reconnected
to that place and those people with whom I had always
felt I never belonged, who whispered in doorways on stairways, hands held against sides
of faces, shielding words hissed out between lips and teeth. Ssssssssso
sad such sorrow someone is
suffering is
dying has died is
divorcing deceiving daring to dig up her roots disown her dear family and
fly. Always the list of
afflictions misfortunes repeated recounted rarely retracted reeling along on the
morning breeze up the street across the chapel yard, down past the
factory, the silk mill, up the hill over church spires, echoed
in the screech of crows, swirling at dusk upon wilted front
lawns where garden hoses linked to sprinklers satisfy the
summer thirst of grass and soil too parched to make it through
another day of scorching, before settling down with the
darkness that stifles the creak of rusting front
porch swings, resting at last in the dim light from the curtained picture window stillness. Hands brush away
mosquitoes, mouths water as the scent of citronella merges in the
shadows with the long awaited smell of coolness and the aroma
of steaming, fresh from the oven, blueberry pie. old women’s
shoes Unbeatable
fortresses. Sturdy. Enclosed. They
covered the feet of the women who lived
for the giving. All
tied up and toned
down. Useful
to hold in. To
hold on. I
dreamed one night of a field dusted
over with twilight. Planted
with rows and rows of old women’s shoes. Turned
upside down. Staked
to the ground. Glistening
with frost. Impaled among
the tomatoes. |