—in memory of Angela Marie Incoronata Caruso Mortola,
May 21, 1903–January 14, 2001
1
In-and-out sunlike the light of her mindthat knows
and doesn’tfeels and forgetspelts of rain
hid and seekof thoughtfirst gray then rose
but still a steady backlight(sometimes hidden):
“Remember Woody Allen’s line?I’m not
like thatI don’t care when it happenswhere
I just don’t want to dienot scarednot that
I just don’t want toand I told the doctor!”
and the doctorlaughing “Cute old ladysaid
she doesn’t care about the why and wherefore
she just doesn’t want to die . . .” and therefore?
then she forgetssmilesturns her head
to nodgrande dameat shadows on the walls
that gather where the light collectsand falls
2
They gatherwhere the light collects and falls
we can’t see thembut she seems to think
at least a few are smilingso she feels
she has to say hellopolitely thank
these thoughtful ghosts who visitsisterbrothers
Sunday best in blackold Brooklyn friends
who hardly seethe gulf of sixty years
mama and papasevere Sicilian bookends
“Come in, come in” her eyes light upshe waves
and beckons all to chairs around her bed
so she can boast to brothersand their wives
of all the special thingsher daughter did
and how her grandkids wonso many prizes
and as she vauntsand glowsher smile blazes
3
But though she glowsbut though her smile blazes
the sister flickersfadesthe brothers falter
her eyesight’s badit’s hard to see their faces
as if she peered through gauzeor a thick filter
and then the others comethe ones she calls
“co-tenants” of her roomsthe lovers screwing
coarse as goatsin cornersnasty girls
smart-aleck guyswho do know what they’re doing
and what they dois occupy her place
back home they swarmedall over her apartment
set up a stovebehind her lovely bookcase
nursed babies on her sofabold indifferent
and even herestill shameless in their clingings
they mean to stealthey’ll stealher best belongings
4
What should she doto safeguardher belongings?
she begs for helpurges us to lock
to triple lockthe doorsto hide her things
her pearls righthereher fruitwood in New York
her mother’s hand-carved walnut chairsthe leather-
surfaced deskat which my father sat
so long agowearing the cashmere sweater
grandma bought himand the Sulka shirt
Listen!Are we listening!Have we heard?
How well he dressed!How beautiful their place!
four rooms in Queenswhat lots couldn’t afford
in an age of breadlinesshameful jobsor worse
“Tuono di Dio!”thunder of Godshe looses
the curse she learned in childhoodfor most uses
5
The curses learnedin childhoodhave their uses
Tuono di Dio!she swears when they strip herbare
to bathe herTuono di Dio!when the nurses
slide the soiled bed padsto the floor
or prop herin the wheelchairto be fed
thunder of Godechoes along the halls
when she tries to fightthe husky nurse’s aide
come to sponge her bruisesstains and spills
embarrassedwe shiverin the corridor
while she flailsand shrieks for the police
“Tuono di Dio!Call the police!”God’s thunder
will scorch us if we leave herin this place
away from her apartmentcalmand peace
away from her belongingspurse and keys
6
Away from her belongingspurseand keys
(and crumpled Kleenexreading glasses coins
and comb she alwayscarriesin that purse)
she isn’t real!she might be only bones!
yet the belongingslongingsmust go on
the bookcase and the rugsand tables must
surviveoutlast herso she tells her grandson
how to plan an auctionin the east
there are the costsof those belongingsthat
the value of mahoganyand this
the price of sterling silver (which she fought
to buy—a fifth-grade teacherin the thirties—)
and the braceletsfursher in-laws gave
too bad they can’tgo with her to the grave!
7
What happens to belongingsafter the grave?
They’ll beup here and sheshe’ll bedown there
what of thestuff she workedso hardto have?
polished mahoganyand minkand silver
and even the fifteen-year-oldtelevision
still goodstill just right for the nightly news
and the brand-newvacuum cleanereven
still a— a somethingsomeone oughtto choose
her face is crumplinglike a handkerchief
don’t give it allawaydon’t give it up
if you don’t want itat least sell it off!
don’t let the othershave it eitherstop
the thieves beforethey drag it all away
don’t let my belongingsgo astray. . . .
8
Don’t let mybelongingsgo astray
call the supertell the doormankeep
the windows lockedand barredthe crooks away
the one who breakand enterwhen you sleep
the oneswho followsullenknife and rape
how many yearsshe’s warned uscan’t we hear
they’ll pick the locksthey’ll climb the fireescape
just lookthe crooks are hereare everywhere
a sudden noda glance atthe next bed
where a wizenedpersongasps and snores
that one nowshe saw heryes she did
peering in closetsrummaging in drawers
even in hospitalsthey haveno pity
they rob youwhen they seeyour things arepretty
9
Yet O it’s nicethat all her things arepretty
her smile blazesback in Jackson Heights
(on one of thebetterblocksin New York City)
her beautifulapartmentbasks and waits
a hush of rugsa drawn Venetianblind
keeping the silencekeeping the barsof shadow
gathered like silentguardiansaround
the hangingshelfthe Wedgewoodthe piano
and there the familyphotographsare massed
my father’s faceblade-thinin sepia
my baby selfin flouncesor undressed
from timeswhen she was poorbut happier
belongings blurryas ifunderwater
bearing the printsof motherfatherdaughter
10
How far the ageof motherfatherdaughter!
my baby room with wallsnow pinknow blue
(but never yellowthough I beggedI fought her)
and the tiny snowmanglobewhere snowflakesflew
and the little silverVirgin Maryshrine
whose key Iturnedto play Our Lady’s song
“Ave Maria”tinklingout of tune
and the grayhooked rugwhere silent bluebirds sang
and a rabbit ranawayamong the trees
but nevervanishednever couldescape
whatever chased himfrom the knitted haze
a scarythingbecauseit had no shape
though now the wholeroom’s painted hazygray
and the rabbittreesand birdsraveled away
11
When did her mindbegin to ravelaway?
(getting pretty forher grandson’s birthday)?
she didn ’tanswerwhen we triedto call her
and soonwith mop and broomshe fought the others
called 911the superthe police
there on the sofasatthe nursing mothers
the loverscrawled and thrashedunder the bookcase
we flewto Queenswe packed up allher things
the fox-head fursher mother ’s lion-necklace
“But what about all my otherbestbelongings?”
she worriedthen gave upresignedto silence
a roar of takeoffbuckled inshe hissed
“Here’s to my newadventurein the west!”
12
At sundowntantrumsshake the sunset west
the nurses turn her toward the flashingwindow
“See the flowers? See the pretty bird’s nest?”
bushes tug in tubson the patio
where a nightwindrisesover Astroturf
batters the waitingtableschairsand wheelchairs
as if they stoodin a swirlof Pacific surf
whose icy waterglittersdarkensclears
“Here’s dinner, hon!” the nurse’s aidewith bib
holds out a tray of lukewarmgrown-upmush
last week a falltore musclescracked a rib
how didshe falldid someonereally push?
she tries to rememberstrains to seeremembers
(sometimes) the namesof sundownvisitors
13
sometimes the namesof sundown visitors
hook into thoughtsometimes the soundsunravel
blursisterbrothersTV commentators
(Frank and Vito turn into Ted Koppel)
I visitafternoonsbring cupcakeschocolate
the only stuff sheever wantsto eat
can barely swallow thoughone night past midnight
she coughsa littlechokes onher own spit
the night nursedidn’t hearthe radio
was turned on loudshe’s kind of scaredand sorry
and puts a roseon the poorold lady’spillow
and a morticiancallsand tells usnot to worry
above the sunlit baythe slicing planes
rise fastand one speeds eastwith her “remains”
14
Back amongher belongingsher remains
glide north northwestin a shinySUV
designed to weather snowstormsfreezing rains
far from the simmeringfieldsof Sicily
the East Coast cemetery’s stonypressed
into a cleftof hillsblack iceI skid on
leaning to greet the freckledheartypriest
lookingnot looking at the boxshe’s laid in
at the edge of the polishedboardsthat hold her husband
the priestsays the wordsshe scornedshe didn’t believe
(she has to be blessedto belongto holy ground)
and O she wouldscold usif she were still alive!
no Tuono di diono boltso fierce and true
as the light of her mindthat feltthat thoughtthat knew
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