Sacred Sod

Blowing a fly
from his olive stained thumb
five foot two Nino
rises from the table
as his daughter Enza
feeds her uneaten dinner
to the cats flocking
in front of the doorway.

He slips past the purple
pop bead curtain
that leads to his bedroom
fumbles for his keys
among the framed photos
of il Duce
and glancing
at Enza’s tear-streaked face
walks to the hilltop cemetery
where his ancestors are buried.

It’s his third visit of the day.

Beyond the rusty gate
the air is heavy with basil
rosemary and the ear-drilling
drone of cicadas.

White Calabrian sunlight
coats branches sagging with
nugget sacks of figs and pears
and tomatoes burst
like bloody wounds.

Squeezed for space
Nino trips over a zucchini
big as boa constrictor
and remembers his vow
to bring to court
the five paesani who
share his cemetery garden
for encroaching
on his family’s sacred sod.

At the tombstones
of his mother and father
he stops to whisper that
his other daughters
have said that Enza is crazy
feeding her cats that multiply
with every passing day
never leaving the house
her skin like scamorza
that no man would want to touch
she needs to see
a head doctor they tell him.

Nino watches a rabbit nibble
a fallen bean stalk
and ruminates about his
wayward daughters
who have abandoned
the family hearth
for strange blood
wimpy husbands
who buy them fancy dresses
for fancy jobs
who plead instead of lead.

He is right
the underground voices
reassure him
Enza is safe at home
safe and rooted.