The Years of Our Lord

When our bus arrived in Bivona
That Sicilian village
Squatting on the side of the hill
Its roofs powdered from the pumice that drifted
From those abandoned mines to the north
Where striking workers were once gunned down
There was no oracle to greet us
But we vowed to pry history’s tongue loose
And get answers from those closed mouthed men
Who sat in the village square
Under the stalled hands of the campanile clock
At quarter past eight, am or pm
In some year or other over the last three centuries
Does it really matter which?
But their instinct was too long buried for them to speak
Or even look into our eyes
What did they imagine we were after
After all these years?

We dusted the edges of the cracked leather tomes in city hall
Where, like finding a lost uncle, history was more forgiving
Offering the names, births, and marriages
Like a procession of the dead across the page
Of Pasquale, Antonio, Paolo, Maria, Vincenzo, Carmella, Nelli
Who tried vainly to speak
From the scrawled hand of their fading brown ink
Just like the muted orisons of that Santa Maria de Gesu
At the far edge of the village
Its blasted nave open to the sun
With the wild fig growing over the altar
What was left of envy or just a senseless prank
Of rival village boys, no one can really say anymore
Its only life the noisome goats
Who stood among the slanting headstones
With their Latin inscriptions and the years of our Lord
Fading in the abandoned cloister next door
There were those other churches
Where we expected to find that open-mouthed oracle
Whose locked doors we banged on
With our clenched fists
But who always left us
Like those men in the square
With that same answer
Which we feared so much
But always knew would be there