Vinni Marie D'Ambrosio, Ph.D. |
Poet/Scholar |
by Vinni Marie D'Ambrosio, in Voices in Italian Americana |
Mystery
I.
Why does he pray, every Sunday, the old man in the pew before me -
"May my wife see the light" - ? Every Sunday, during the parish
Intercessions, the same words float in a cavernous whisper from his massive
chest. His head, even bowed, seems monumental, its crop of whiteness
like a buffalo's mane in moonlight. I hear him clearly - always he's chosen
the second row, and ritually I take the third. And always
nearby he has the same black suitcase, its canvas sides stuffed to bursting -
with what pantomime of possessions I don't know.
Standing, we each hang onto the warm wooden bench-backs,
red hymnal in hand, thin pages lying still. No gilded transept
or carved mahogany baldachin faces us but an altar that's plain as the plainsong
spiraling down in clear gray air from an invisible grove of singers.
II.
I'm not certain I should be revealing all this - that at the entreaties for Intercession
I've learned to anticipate the pained, private words,
"May my wife see the light," rolling around soft and deep.
The incantation - is it his eleventh-hour love, or
the warning crack of doom? You can see how a person might come to dwell
on this Byzantine triptych - an ancient and homeless groom, a rusty
and hopeless bride (her gaze darkly averted, his flaming), and, between the two,
a figure of mystery leaning one way and then the other, listening. |
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