May 2014 - Comments Off

Earthquake Basilicatta

Jessica Paccitto

The old man cobbled hands in San Fele:
He sewed glass eye buttons to my coat.
In San Fele, happiness is a needle
slipped through wool & eye. To seem
gentle & gently alter the sound
of church bells, we bellowed
when the Wolves came with tremors
to gut us like the pagans. We clutched
our psalters choking on an imagined
caul. We called our luck, hid
among wooly sheep headed for america
& failed in cheap apartments with poppy locks
sprung on the doors. In San Fele
they cored the Homes out of houses like apples.
The old man told me in San Fele
When will me be I – remembered?

Published by: in Issue 2: Spring 2014, Volume 70

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