Winter 1996 • Vol. XVIII No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1996 |


1920-1993   In black and white a little boy runs down a beach pursued by priests. Almost the young boy's earliest recalled desire— is to pee in the padre's chalice, or to spit in the padre's sacristy wine, or at least to sneak a drink of Monsignor's best communion cabernet, as acolytes are wont to do. But no. Soon enough the little boy runs through a house in black and white full of Mama and nurses and so many aunts and Grandmama, and from whom and where comes that distant   ethereal heavenly singing overhead? Mama is bathing her little Guido, swathing her lovely all in towels, warm like swaddling, and ready to be kissed and carried upstairs to bed. But no.   At last, the little boy runs down the beach by himself, past salt marsh and seagrass, the sea breeze flapping his black Catholic cape furiously behind as he comes up short, stops and stares at the mascaraed mountain, La Saraghina, the huge disheveled goulash of greasepaint, lipstick and

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