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2014 & 2018 Rina Ferrarelli
House of Bone in sympathy with the shadowed one the rain awakens in the spring, water so sweet it feels like sap, and the logs in the walls, the planks in the floor green a little, swell, warp and tilt, wanting to loose their bonds, to reach for the light, break out in leaf and song. first published in Albatross. 2018 Rina Ferrarelli An immigrant from Italy,
Rina Ferrarelli has written many poems on
subjects having to do with emigration,
and has also translated the work of Italian poets into English.
Her most
recent collections are The Bread We
Ate (Guernica), poetry, and
Winter Fragments
(Chelsea),
translation.
A new book,
The Winter
Without Spring,
is forthcoming from Main Street Rag. The streetlight is burnt umber, dim in the mist, the fog envelopping the scene. He comes back in, brandishing the green-wrapped paper, barely damp in robe and hat, the walk, under porch roof and maple’s canopy. A finger underlines the words,
his lips moving.
What does
this mean? he asks, unable to decipher the headlines’ inevitable puns, yet catching any bit of humor out of the air. Quietly, I set the food on the table pushed against the window, trees and hills invisible in the bright small room, the dark, unfathomable, our reflections muted and flat, ghostly. 2
What now, what next? he asks after every small
event.
New again, thanks to the upside of his downside, the wooden puzzle of the US, the states in bright colors.
He starts with Texas, the biggest state, and goes on from there. Much harder to unscramble, murky, the mammoth on the table, shades
of white, gray and brown. We do it together.
I put a few pieces in, go out, come back. Put another piece in, and another. I talk aloud about the pattern, the shapes and subtle clues. 3 Everything, metal-gray through the streaked windows. I feel an enormous hand pressing me down, my legs, like cement.
Pivoting from fridge to counter,
Coke or root beer?
I ask at lunch.
Beer,
forbidden, the word he hears.
4. Rain, rain, rain typing relentless against the panes a history that’s lost as quickly as it’s written. Time rushing like water,
yet, as if it will never end. An eight-hour day, and it’s only two. He doesn’t want a nap.
While he looks at the Marco Polo book, I lie down on the couch,
sink deep into the cushions, close my eyes.
When he thinks I’m asleep, he pulls at the front door,
he pulls at
the back door.
No exit.
For either of us. 5.
I want to go home,
he says, again and again, pining for an eden that could have been or never was. And in the rain we get in the car make bright tracks in the gray, trying to ward off what evil is ahead, work out a return
to the place of his dreams, a sunny street we reach and not reach, that, soon,
no longer matters as motion becomes intention,
fulfillment,
©
Copyright, Rina Ferrarelli. |