"The Walls of
Tuscany"
by paloma
His fist, Sicilian
dynamite,
brought down the
law
in his favor.
Then, like a boxer,
cornered, eyes bruised and
head gone soft,
he left a country,
while she
dismissed a man
as frivolous.
Outside these four
walls
of Tuscany,
the songs of old
women
on their way to
wash
away the shadow,
of another's body,
from their
husband's
white shirt.
Pressed on her
face,
that man's shadow
becomes darker
as the years turn.
Her father's fist,
once dynamite,
drops the
saucer, curls without notice
on his lap.
My daughter, so
good to me.
My father, a chain
on my wrist.
The years have
seeped into the paint of these
walls of Tuscany.
His gray head,
small as a doll's,
flops without
notice
onto his chest,
early in the
morning.
She sits by the
window,
looking at
rooftops,
lovers camouflaged
among the
reds, yellows
of a latticed
covering,
their love sounds
giving them away.
When the moon
overflows with
white-silver,
a tarnished gold
paves the roads,
and father is
wrapped for the
night,
she reads the
letters.
Letters, bound like
artifacts, cracked,
coaxed out of
seclusion.
Her mouth
dumb with sadness.
She begins to
read:
"Dear
Rosey….."