Alicia Patti

My favorite bookmark
smells of cherry wood;
each time I read, its smell
compels me to proceed.
...

I sit here in my cups wondering
where it all went and why.
Fishermen cleaning their wares along
the decrepit pier seem to sigh with each
...

Conjurers like us
have no need
of disappearing acts
or card tricks
...

Would you think of me when the wind
whips up the sand and the angry sea crashes
against the crumbling jetty where our beach
blanket used to lay;
...

a chance sighting
eucalyptus trees
up a slight incline
a moment’s gasp
...

Two men dressed in gray
asked us to leave the grieving room.
The son is here, they said.
Reluctantly I left my sister’s resting place
...

Why did Nurse Ratched think
she had dibs on all the nuts in the bag?
The little power she enjoyed pushed her
over the edge. I was there, I know:
...

We’ll never know who
the culprit was.

The tamburo
...

It makes no difference now
that the sun has set on western ground.
Time will toll the age-old tale for posterity
and frown, as sad old men daydream
...

How I love the coo-coo-coo! of a dove,
especially at dusk when the summer
air is redolent with musk,
and all around are the sounds
...

They were told the streets were paved with gold.
I remember the pain and pride in my father’s eyes as he pounded
the kitchen table, his big fist like a hammer of God,
and my mother’s sighs in measured counterpoint,
...

It never occurred to me that I would see
the end of us come so suddenly:
a tornado roaring down the highway past
101 and Grand would be the final brand.
...

How they haunt me still
like playmates’ naughty taunts.
The old church bell
the lilacs’ smell,
...

I saw you walking in the park today,
And all at once my world came tumbling down.
You looked as though you had not aged a day! -
Although I noticed just the slightest frown
...

No one suspected such a heartfelt sight:
father and child on a lovely summer day,
puffy clouds painting a powder blue sky.
...

The ruins of Pompeii held no charm for me, so full of ruined rocks and the dead it made my heart hurt. How the tour guide waxed eloquent on that ancient holocaust, almost revering the disinterested volcano that overtook so many innocents under the hot Pompeian sun: children at play, mothers nursing their young, fathers planting olive trees, the elderly gazing at the volcano that never ceased its warnings. They refused to believe Vesuvio’s ranting was the bellow of things to come.
How the tourists speculated as they gesticulated, full of awe and sympathy...

The tour ended with the spectacular showing of human remains, fire-frozen in the grotesque rictus of the dead: backs arched, appendages akimbo; all lovingly encased in glass for the entertainment of future generations. Then we clambered onto the bus and thought no more of Pompeii and what we saw that day.
...

Born to sing music all triumphant thrall
Mellow up mellow up my trumpets call
My heart sings my songs my songs come
Oh next refrain fill my soul take me home
...

My mother made pizza on weekends,
in the days when we had little else to eat.
How else to pacify a horde of ten?
Pasta every day drained us,
...

speaking
in tongues

preaching
...

At the flower market
I found spice, holy water,
...