Journal of Italian Translation

Journal of Italian Translation
to bend for hours, working the pedals, arms
stretching to send the shuttle scuttling through.
My mother, the more delicate one, the one
who wanted to get away, sat where the light
fell on her hands, and pulling out the weft threads
her sister had worked into a tight fabric,
restructured the space with floss, white on white
openwork borders, arabesqued windows.
Rough- or fine-textured, the linens I was saving
were meant to survive soaking in hot water
and ashes, milling on the rocks. I machine
wash them and when the weather is good,
hang them outside, the way women still do over there,
stretching them into shape while damp. Most
are holding up well; a few show signs of wear,
but not from use. It was keeping them safe in a trunk
for so many years that weakened the fabric.
The Bridge
Progress has finally come
to the forgotten South.
A new superstrada
wide and straight as none before
bypasses the shelf of road
the sharp-angled bridge.
The cross by the roadside
reminds the few of us who remember
fewer all the time
of the men who died there
hitting the rocks of the stream
when their truck went off the road.
Seven men who knew how to do without
how to turn in a small place
taking nothing for granted.
The bridge is crumbling
purple flowers grow out of the wall.
The river keeps on going
as it did then
the rocks are mute—