The light before nine at night in the Roman ghetto
is a light we would find beneath lakes if like fish
we could live without lungs to pump air.
God might have made fish to be heavy as lead,
said Galileo, but he wanted to teach us about ease.
Families have gathered at outdoor tables
to eat warm cheese on warm bread with their fingers.
An old man in an apron smiles like several fields
to an old man with two bills in his hand. This for me?
asks the man in the apron, tossing up English like fruit
that he’s just learned to juggle. This for you,
is the answer he’s given: Take it, everything!
In Italian there’s a tense for a past so far past
that most people forget how to use it. It’s a tense
for a past that has no direct link to right now.
600 years ago in a prison beneath a castle
built into the bed of the Bay of Naples, a monk
spent three decades in water that reached to his knees.
For ink he squeezed blood out of cockroaches
to write: The world is a grand and perfect animal
and: Each piece of dirt is alive. With deck chairs
they drag from their kitchens at dusk, widows cluster
on bricks that are lit with the light inside lakes.
Their bodies are certain as books. He could have built
bones for the birds out of gold, Galileo explained, and made
their veins of living silver. The old man in an apron
sits down at my table, says: Here you are welcome,
whatever you want—you are guest of the house tonight.
