Oh, Dante Alighieri

Grandfather, I long for cessation,
for the hurricane spinning inside me
to dissipate out at sea. I long

for the low pressure, the terror,
the flying debris to settle, and for
disaster relief. Long, at least,

for the eye, for faces that haunt me,
well made up lips, finely
accentuated lashes, cocked heads

with hair flipped back innocently
giggling, half hidden peaks of breasts
dissecting me to cease, the heart

in my chest to cease. I long
for the sing-song voices to stop
their hypnotic chorus. For cessation.

To know again the simplicity of first love,
love without comparison, without questions,
one simply assured to last forever,

last this long, at least. In peace
I’ll find a kind woman who’ll allow me
to cower at her feet, paint nails, peel

fresh grapes and wave palm fronds,
build pedestals in her honor, temples,
small nations, and tomes, and poems,

a house, Grandfather where you can
stay with us, where we celebrate
Beatrice in rhythm and song.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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