Spam cleverly disguised as poetry

[xaara]

I've been struggling with what Sicily means to me lately, because all I can come up with is home. And it was more than that, and less than that, and I was so insignificant among the sand dunes and the ruins.

Sicilia

Columns that held up the sky
temples ancient and crumbled
hills like brown patchwork to the horizon.
I will gain your sunburnt shore.

I will walk back home to you. I will
wear sandals and carry my heart in a backpack,
shuffle over the needled beach of Baltimore,
beyond the foam and fishermen.

The ocean will spread before me. I will walk
along its warm surface and sleep on whales
and eat fistfuls of salty plankton
as I pass the Straits of Gibraltar.

When stars begin to press themselves
into the vaulted darkness, then I will listen
for the waves, lapping at your edges
that reach seaward to pull me home.


Trinacria

Jostle of cobblestones, lava rock
blood-hot, melting the soles of our shoes.
The gauntlet: fruit carts, stick-broom
street cleaner, children sun dark, dirt dark,
dark as the funeral that twists
down into the silver olives.

August nights, Sant’Anastasia lives,
her wristbone paraded, candles
dripping wax over our wrists, our arms
raised in supplication. Smile, grimace
and bow to her, chant, our patron
who tips to God her pained porcelain cheek.

The Normans built a tower on the hill
awaiting wars that never came. Waited
while the town forgot them, watched
stubbled fields burn, choking on summer heat,
watched Etna spit lava in a vibrant stream
marching, winding, inexorably seeking the sea.

Comments

[flipmontigirl.livejournal.com]

:)

[xaara.livejournal.com]

For reasons I can't quite explain even to myself, I'm ridiculously glad to get that reaction from you.

[ravenclaw-devi.livejournal.com]

Beautiful.

[xaara.livejournal.com]

Thank you. :)