Treasure Island

RIC S. BASTASA


after the scream


after the scream, she takes her needed vacation
in Florence,
takes her silent walks along the boulevard
by the river of Arno,

this is Italy, and the scream had long been forgotten.
it is over she said, my brother is dead, and i am here

working on a plan to survive the pain
of my family

each step is a forgetting.
the sound of her heels on the cobbled stones
must tell another story

something happy, about her love and her coping up
for a new beginning.

her long hair hangs on her thick black coat
the river is a big, wide, long silver
running between two connected
ancient towns of other people's miseries

not hers now. It is over. It is over.
She keeps on telling herself.

she obliges a smile in this picture.
her hands inside her pocket.Her arms
sticking on the side of her
frail, brown body.

Meanwhile, the sun begins
to spread her morning light.

It is time to go.That's what is written
at the back of the picture.

I am looking at it now. I am smiling.

Submitted: Thursday, October 23, 2008

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