Summer 1956 • Vol. XVIII No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1956 |

Great Grandfather

"Non sai tu che tu se' in cielo?" The world is a blur in his cataracted eyes, as he rocks in nostalgic obscenity. Too warm for worms, too cold for the flies, he reels off the names of his progeny. He has fathered sons who have fathered sons, and has long been done with fathering, though the girls still quake where his young blood runs, and his is all but the bothering. Milk from the udders of unknown cows goes pouring down his gullet, and he sits, and his billowing memory blows over spawning schools of mullet. No one knows what he's thinking of. Nobody knows if he's thinking. Reciting the names that have come of his love, he sits in the sunshine, blinking.

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Warning

By David R. Slavitt

"Non sai tu che tu se' in cielo?" The world is a blur in his cataracted eyes, as he rocks in nostalgic obscenity. Too warm for worms, too cold for […]

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