1.
For dead reckoning to a western beech.
Regaining course, the Santa Mari
Of this day was the same as ’24,
That ’70s coy pinup (sliced scalene
By three scissoring streets) in full display,
Its barbered lawn, its brawny steel front door,
Lightly opened by Ani’s quick, watchful
Hand and hug and greeting and fair warning
Of the sunken living room floor—very
So, so 70s—and not yet filled in,
Built over, tightly caulked and made a pool;
But, one forgets, there’s one of those in back,
Gallbladder sized or some other organ.
Seldom declining a meal-included
Invite, and least this annual pasta
Fest, Ani names three brothers and just one
Sister arrivals, these and a shout of kids,
Theirs and now theirs…and, “Would y’all fill in?”
Of course, of course! silently wondering
Just why we’re included each C Day
(Neither’s name ending in an i or o.)
Maybe how long we’d known their progenitors,
How they put up with our adopting them,
Well before meeting their seven and years
Before mention of losing no. 8,
Whose absence, kept so quiet, grew louder.
2.
Have joined the ensemble in the fourth act.
Were we to play the missing two members
(No, make that three): there’s one whose Caribbean
Cruise would dock a day later, the doctor
In Albuquerque…and one one doesn’t name.
How do we connect these with those present,
Lightening and brightening empty gaps?
Words won’t catch over this crowd’s all-at-once;
Even over pidgin-Italian hands
That wave about as a child’s playing
Conductor of an opera, as when Nonno
Got lifted by Kofi’s Proclamation,*
His hands rising, lowering, as in prayer.
C Day immersions feed food and study:
Speaking only for the boys, who had marched
Through Catholic academies, Latin
Lessons, strong family, food and faith (two
Adhering), x-many Hail Marys,
They retained and lived a sense of purpose.
We knew essentials of the absent two,
But how to connect them to him most missed,
From whom issued not sorrows but freed joy
To their lives; sharing these was his profession,
The way he engineered both voice and foot,
Though back when the virus was not outrun.
3.
Cake wedges tumbled onto plastic plates.
“Play itself…play?” noticing no one heard.
“Yes, yes, and I would play the whole Timpano.”
“Metaphor, culinary?” I wondered.
“Must be flesh and blood and taste?” he focused.
“Most only taste with their eyes,” I offered.
“Will bring life to minor roles,” he proposed.
“Leading to major ones, to Hamlet or..?”
“Now’s all a stage can proffer,” he stated.
“Now still fills your stage?” I dared to inquire.
“Too busy being for that,” head turning,
“To speculate?”
“To fumble with a script.”
Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man
Bake me a cake as fast as you can
“Change a word, a beat to its demise,”
He illumined.
“And it’s all on a stage?”
“Do you wish to know or enter?” he asked.
Italian baby’s cry then squeal then yelp
Cut this year’s brief linking, if it was that.
Tiramisu smeared the toddler’s sounding
Face, plate, tabletop. It was now
Something or nothing she wanted.
Her role:
Stop all their talk and tend—Now! Now!—to me.
*Paganini, Nessun Dorma.
* * *
If you enjoyed Don Moss’s poem, FILLING THE FAMILY, consider supporting our film on a great American poet and get patron-only content on Patreon. This will help the growth of this site, the automachination YouTube channel, and the ArtiFact Podcast. Our video essays include a comparison between Palestine and Liberia, an investigation into the death of American journalist Paul Klebnikov in Moscow, and the role of white guilt in American politics. You can also follow us on Twitter.
More from Don Moss: POEM: Don Moss’s “Shared Favor”, Poetry on Film: Don Moss’s “Catoptrics”, Poetry On Film: Don Moss’s “Space Break”