1.
“Girasole,” Italians say, accent
on soul, “g” as in gyro, the last
syllable, lay–a medieval song.
In my uncle’s garden there were many
(heads taller than I, taller even than
the tomato plants he trained to staves
heading towards trellises of overhead vines
from which he squeezed–sweet!–
grapes’ wine-dark blood).
But these were different—
golden, star-petaled…serene;
yet…eerie how they tracked the sun….
(I thought—in my six years: They track me, too!)
If they could know the sun’s intent,
know where to turn, compassed to light,
easy to know a small boy’s wondering!
Behind their sheriffs’ golden badges,
atop their tall, green stems,
they knew I looked; looked back; looked into
years gone by, and years to come.
And I thought: They are pieces of the sun,
dreaming of returning.
2.
Now, in my dreams’ carousels,
spinning their mutable, chocolate-clock faces,
they turn in the words learned without learning:
Nel cuore del mio cuore–i girasoli–
(in the heart of my heart—sunflowers–)
turning…returning.…
Gary Steven Corseri has published novels and poetry collections, and published/posted poetry, prose and dramas at hundreds of periodicals and websites worldwide, including, Countercurrents, Counterpunch, Village Voice and The New York Times. He has performed his work at the Carter Presidential Library, and his dramas have been presented on PBS-Atlanta and elsewhere. He has taught at universities in the U.S. and Japan and in US public schools and prisons.
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