Antoinette in Flames.
Granted you were poor, great grandmother, And so accustomed to
waiting. Also that maybe the old backyard kiln had been hot enough once
To fire your little pots and bread but not the right thing for bodies.
Who knew? Whose idea? That idiot Eusebius? Half-crazy Donato? Brunetta
with her crew of drunk camionisti?
I heard it took three of them to break your legs With a lug wrench to
get you in there. Four hours, five, six-- The speeches, the stories, the
wine, the platters Of salsiiccia conpeperoni
disappeared Or spilled to the dogs as drunk cousins and their bored
children took turns Pulling faces at the little isinglass window. Until
even you had had enough-- According to Tancredo who saw it with his own
eyes-- Rising slowly for a moment with your back arched as if to sit up
In bed to scold them once more as you used to. As you used to those last
late summer afternoons, Hearing Geraldo call at the door, Back from
Mizda with a picnic basket and his head still on. Sei pronta, mia
re you ready, my dove? Si, si, solo un minuto ...