Through the lens of a half-eaten pear, what began as whole
muddled into mush and seeds spread out upon the floor,
one may think, am I rotting too? The chair falls—
a noise– but no one’s at the door.
The rascal wind of hope barreled through it once before,
It came up from the sea and smelled like nothing else.
The flowers, in the garden bed, cup the bugs and more,
And we are lingering in the hall, as if they might get us.
Remember the fresco of sky on the ceiling, shining through the dust?
Just as it mirrored the clarity one feels while glancing at the sky,
so we reflected the couple we thought we’d be
in the violet mist some dusk.
And one keeps returning to daydreams of silence,
But keeps on blundering over the stones:
The moon was on the rocks at Vada,
So we dove right in, in the cold.
– Pia Marrella Cisternino