Gobbo Remembers His Youth
Let me tell you about suffering
because I was a boy cold without love
in a large house, so dark it stifled laughs.
I would run to my mother with stones
only to drop them under a grim gaze
so harsh I felt tossed in a freezing bath.
Her words, like a cicada's shrill chirp, pierced
the long summer afternoons of my hopes.
I can still remember my brother's folded hands
in the coffin, how kissing them burnt me.
I cried uncontrollably, torched inside
with processional fires held by shadowed monks
cowled in their black walk through narrow streets
of my town, terrifying my heart forever.
Copyright © 2006 by David Cappella. From Gobbo: A Solitaire's Opera. Reprinted with permission of Bright Hill Press.