Journal of Italian Translation

Rina Ferrarelli/Raffaele Carrieri
Raffaele Carrieri
Two of Us
Two of us were dying
At the end of one evening
The alpine soldier and I.
Each of us knew
It was the last evening.
I saw on the night table
The bowl of milk
Filling with darkness
And I was pleased
I could still see
And distinguish
White from black.
My eye and the bowl
Were links
In the same chain.
The day after
I survived the other.
That’s all I remember
From that evening.
Small Death
I know this: he was a soldier
With a new pair of shoes
Which kept vigil near him
Day and night.
He was shot in the chest
And every time he coughed
He turned his sky-blue eyes
To look at the shoes
That watched like dogs
The infirmary cot.
He died at five in the morning
Saying only these words:
“Friends, put my shoes on
It’s time for me to go.”
He died at five in the morning
Eyes turned toward his shoes.
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