Location: Rome, Italy
Fire and smoke my father robbed from a hill
in Greece. My mother wove his coming home
by the fireside, unwove her dream at breakfast.
When he came back I saw the warrior parade
down the centre of a narrow lane, world wars
stacked up behind him. Everyday sweeter than air
stronger than incense he celebrated indifference.
But in the dark I felt his anger at the burning boats.
Like a god he turned my head. He had plundered
cities beyond a child's horizon when in summer
I dug the sand to hold an ocean. I heard him lap
like waves against my feet. My castles leveled,
the sea turned. Hand in hand we crossed
an in-between of land and water.
A bucket full of shells and shining stones
I offered for his going and his coming back.