Camus Updates
I remember printing
memos out, reading
for typos in a fake
English accent before
I dared hit send,
the caffeinated thrill
of catching slips
in the fluorescent
light of an office.
This morning’s first
agenda item is Camus
updates. No Freudian
banter via Zoom.
Campus, the tired
teachers assume.
Fossa Comune
I don’t know! 42! 48!
comes through the wall,
the neighbor’s daughter
doing math, not getting it,
flinging her book. On Hart
Island they bury, I mean we
do, bodies in a common,
mass, or, as we once said,
paupers’ grave. My husband’s
stunned. I am ashamed.
He didn’t know. It never
came up. Incredibile,
questo paese! he says
to other outraged
Italians on the phone,
fossa comune!
Bike Room
I curse the unknown owner
of the vintage Schwin with no
kickstand I find, every time,
leaning on my Giant Rincon
in the far corner where poison
pellets pile. Under one pedal
a mouse baby decomposes,
so small it has no smell.
I roll my mountain trail
tires past wagon, tandem,
trike, the sturdy brown Raleigh
three-speed of our super Esad,
who just had his fourth child.
His wife wears a hijab
and says hi back when I,
in my black mask, say hi.
Mortacci Loro
If, as you saute
onions, you curse
your enemies &
all their ancestors—
mortacci loro, their
fucking dead ones—
don’t let my Anglo
monosyllables fool
you. Sometimes I rip
my dry-cleaned dress
from its sealed
plastic, hiss
pezzo di merda
at no one in
the house.
Fuori
My husband won’t go
out. E’ bello fuori,
I say. Si, l’ho letto,
he says, meaning he’s read
the weather’s nice. Once
he joined me on walks.
We disagreed. He liked
the streets of ninety-nine-
cent shops. I loved the fat
old sycamores of Stratford,
Albemarle. At his desk
he ponders such questions
as how far droplets fall
in open air from those
who don’t wear masks.
