Journal of Italian Translation

Michael Palma/Giovanni Raboni
in the morning sun imprinted limpidly
and these days wobbling by upon the poor
stilts of recall. It doesn’t take much to see
that all the passengers know little or
nothing of things that ache in our memory,
that Auschwitz is just a name to them, just one
like any other, a sound that doesn’t hold
any history. I feel them, lighter than
the air, as they graze me, split the goodness of
the air, not exiles but commuters of
the air in transit between fog and gold.
*
My good, my evil, by now so close together
that I confuse you sometimes, I who might
have angered you when the world was filled with light
and the little theaters of the heart would never
hire shadows for the roles but filled every one
with angels and demons of flesh and bone, from all
sides, in the ditch of the one who may recall,
in the toilets, in the wings that were overrun
with debris, and in the foyer that was so
flame-blackened, life was reckless and it blazed...
Yes, it is true the curtain is still raised,
and every evening there is still a show—
but now there are no winners in our plays,
no losers, and no blood, and no bouquets.
*
At times in autumn there are lights so clear
and, on the trees, reds of such horribly
outrageous sweetness that your heart would be
shattered to see them. And while you appear
preoccupied by a variety
of more innocuous tasks, you still permit
your eyes to charm and warm themselves in it,
brave and foolish as they are... Then gradually
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