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I Figli di Mondovi

Written after a visit to Mondovi, Italy following an invitation to read by Amici di Piazza, Mondovi

Picture
I Figli di Mondovi

These two boys who appear in the doorway

of the Caffé Bertaina, scamper

between tables like untrained pups before

their sisters, older, wiser at eight and almost

ten; they who let curls tumble to their

shoulders and stare their superior stares.


Parents skim the latest from La Stampa

letting the chocolate take its hold, spooning

cream to the cup to merge and sink, rich and

thick like family love.

The girl at the corner table ties her

scarf alla moda, and while her boy drinks

deeply from her eyes, with speeding thumbs she

touches her friends.

Out in the piazza, toothless women

suck, squeeze and regurgitate gossip.

This is the bench which affords the view

of the cobbles and scaffolded stone,

of the pantiles skewed and broken, of the

years which pass like ghosts.

Church bells issue a sonorous summons,

a discordant clang waving over walls,

alleys, and lanes falling from this hilltop,

out to the farm dogs chained and raging at

padlocked metal gates, to regimented

lines of vines, olives, squashes and maize, to

the parched edges of fields where vipers lie

shining their diamonds in the sun.

Out to the Sanctuary of Regina

Montis Regalis Basilica

where a rich man bought and built his way

to thread himself through the needle’s eye.

The church bells of Chiesa della Missione,

the cracked metal invitation served to

mourners in their black saloons to grieve, wake

and celebrate.

With a single arm the

clock on the Tower of Belvedere

folds everything in its power; packing

smiles and tears, arrivals and departures,

unifying time. And we, the children

of Mondovi are swept across its face.




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