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God gift me a slingshot
for I’ve grown old curbing my aim –
sitting here by a passive lake recalling
my mother’s Sicilian voice – elevated,
piercing perfectly windless days
in summer with its sadness.
And what did I know
of sadness then?

How distance grew invisible
between a husband and wife – how
roads home were closed during storms –
silence sitting on top of the dinner table, heavy
as earthenware and dark as the asphalt stuck
on my father’s boots – how

he found a bird with a broken wing
in our driveway one day, placed it in a shoebox
& nursed it with water & bread – called me over
in a gentle voice to take a look, desperate
to show me he could save something.