He’s cutting the stems off the garlic
Robin Wyatt Dunn

He’s cutting the stems off the garlic, working and now there is no way I will not love him, even though garlic is merely a kind of vampiric propaganda as it thins the blood and so those who ingest it regularly are guaranteed to be easy to slaughter and bleed out;  the piazza has no hours, nor any need of any, for even though the Etruscans gave it their clocks and times and gods the urgency of any Italic miasma feeds underground to the waykeeping mass of some five or six pre-Christian millennia—in other words, it’s a kind of slow that has almost no heartbeat despite the deftness of his hands over the cloves:  

Of course it’s a factory hand, but from the centuries of factors, when a union was not something you carried a card for in your wallet, but a gang separate from allegiance to your city, and the dock an aspect of some Phoenician kingdom, pre-coinage, pre-imperial light:  

thrust over every vista we can see. Because yellow is the color of madness because it is the color of the sun, but one whose face winds down under the hands beneath the skin into the gut, like his fingernails beneath the skin of the seeds.  

I speak no Italian and the way of the piazza is closed to me;  whatever ardor I have is swamped beneath my swampy ancestors, who would have regarded this clime with some form of ancestral terror, in its marching insistence on the right fluid make and marker of the lucent:  but not now, not while I am watching him.    

First published: May 2019
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