Salami

Salami

Stomach of goat, crushed

sheep balls, soft full

pearls of pig eyes,

snout gristle, fresh earth,

worn iron of trotter, slate

of Zaragoza, dried cat heart,

cock claws. She grinds

them with one hand and

with the other fists

mountain thyme, basil,

paprika, and knobs of garlic.

And if a tooth of stink thistle

pulls blood from the round

blue marbled hand

all the better for

this ruby of Pamplona,

this bright jewel of Vich,

this stained crown

of Solsona, this

salami.

The daughter

of mismatched eyes,

36 year old infant smelling

of milk. Mama, she cries, mama,

but mama is gone,

and the old stone cutter

must wipe the drool

from her jumper. His puffed fingers

unbutton and point her

to toilet. Ten, twelve hours

a day, as long as the winter sun

hold up he rebuilds

the unvisited church

of San Martin. Cheep cheep

of the hammer high above

the town, sparrow cries

lost in the wind or lost

in the mind. At dusk he leans

to the coal dull wooden Virgin

and asks for blessings on

the slow one and peace

on his grizzled head, asks

finally and each night

for the forbidden, for

the knowledge of every

mysterious stone, and

the words go out on

the overwhelming incense

of salami.

A single crow

passed high over the house,

I wakened out of nightmare.

The winds had changed,

the Tremontana was tearing

out of the Holy Mountains

to meet the sea winds

in my yard, burning and

scaring the young pines.

The single poplar wailed

in terror. With salt,

with guilt, with the need

to die, the vestments

of my life flared, I

was on fire, a stranger

staggering through my house

butting walls and falling

over furniture, looking

for a way out. In the last room

where moonlight slanted

through a broken shutter

I found my smallest son

asleep or dead, floating

on a bed of colorless light.

When I leaned closer

I could smell the small breaths

going and coming, and each

bore its prayer for me,

the true and earthy prayer

of salami.

--Philip Levine. They Feed They Lion. Atheneum, 1972.