A, and: Antoinette in Flames

A

Almost, the therapist would say,Almost. Dear Angie, a paid optimist.And so again she'd slide the penAnd paper across the sunroom table. The firstAt first held upside down forA moment or simply dropped or flungAside. The second a thing mostly just stared at.Again, the pen, the paper.April, May, June, July—months of bitten, broken,Aligned to probe an earhole with,A crumpled morsel to be tasted or swallowed untilAglow late one afternoonAngie rushes out to greet us with what looks likeA toddler's tepee slashed once in rage incarnate—the letterA as adduced by my father after his third stroke.Also per Klaus, the King of Chimpanzees, in his cageAt the Internationale de Paris in 1937—held up for the crowd—Étonnant! Neither of which was ever followed byAnother letter let history record let alone a word.Alone—yes. Side by side, as I've placed them. Their scannedAnd printed-out facsimilesAffixed with thumbtacks to the whitewashed wallAbove my desk, the silence thereA silence my shadow-head leans into, listening.As if someday an answer will emerge from it: which the more pitiable.Ah, no. The more les dieux absents. The more complete.

Antoinette in Flames

Granted you were poor, great grandmother,And so accustomed to waiting.Also that maybe the old backyard kiln had been hot enough onceTo fire your little pots and bread but not the right thing for bodies.Who knew? Whose idea? That idiot Eusebius? Half-crazy Donato?Brunetta with her crew of drunk camionisti?I heard it took three of them to break your legsWith a lug wrench to get you in there.Four hours, five, six—The speeches, the stories, the wine, the plattersOf salsiiccia con peperoni and sfogliatelle disappearedOr spilled to the dogs as drunk cousins and their bored children took turnsPulling faces at the little isinglass window.Until even you had had enough—According to Tancredo who saw it with his own eyes—Rising slowly for a moment with your back arched as if to sit upIn bed to scold them once more as you used to.As you used to those last late summer afternoons,Hearing Geraldo call at the door,Back from Mizda with a picnic basket and his head still on.Sei pronta, mia colomba? Are you ready, my dove?Sì, sì, solo un minuto . . .