you said
it was hot
when you put on
your brown woolen coat.
“the meaning of heat
is the coat you wear,”
you said in the manner of
obvious truth.
———————-
dawn—
and the last sliver of meaning
fell in a pastel crescent
beyond western palms
as the sky brightened in the east.
i remember, you said,
“its the rootless ones
who leave home their woolen hats!”
———————
you suggested i be
even more than i am
more pronounced, more blunt,
less jaded, more sensible.
but sometimes my jaw is just so very tight
and sometimes we can’t both really be right.
————————-
partially pale
on both sides
of your house
your mother
your father
your planet
your pet cat.
but, when you ate that imported
tangerine, was it bio-flavanoids and dna
on which you waxed rhapsodic?
or was it your heart flowering from deep inside your mouth?
——————————————-
padua
was the name she used,
which made no more sense
than sandra’s calling her female cat
ali.
it was when she opened her book
to page 78
that i understood was sealed, my fate,
for there it was in black and white—
grandfather mordechai
said to be from hungary,
born and raised in italy,
in the medieval town
with the medical school
which had drawn my folk
from all over the pale
to study and learn
even by rote
in the stone walled town
surrounded by a moat,
the town named
padua
—————-
12 gemstone rings
12 directions on the compass
12 chaste virgins
12 gates to the golden walled city
and all so precious
and all so good,
how often it is
that everything reminds me of something?
