Dopo
Mezzogiorno
as i step
from plane
onto tarmac
the ancient bedrock
acknowledges me
it sounds my secret Sicilian name—
this island knows its son
lost prodigal—to the new found land
tempted there by plenty—
its pane e lavoro—
conveniences of every kind
that fired the senses
of all its lost children
seducing them slowly
to recantations of bitter births
among the fallen arid stones of villages
some no longer there—
and changing names
once lyrical
into something more pronounceable—
this island knows its blood
and calls it back
from all its emigrations,
over the dry terraced hills
blistering in the high sun
and the too blue Mediterranean
waving welcome
as it breaks upon the bouldered shore—
in my village the festa begins
as eyes of a generation lost
and a generation begun, meet with mine
each wet with tears and glowing
with a thousand spoken memories—
they call my secret name
sit me at their table
beneath a cloudless campagnia sky,
feed me oil and olives, bread and wine
made by them for me
my expanded family
grown beyond my parents memories
beyond again these terraced hills
and too blue seas
chained only by traditions
and the blood that will always be...
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