By: Salvatore Difalco

Speak not, instead hurl your hammer at the statue
staring at you so emptily it hurts your heart and
no chains will keep you bound to the observation
platform, attending to ideas bound up with higher
standards, and rules you would codify if you found
reason to share your wisdom and aesthetic expertise.
The shape of an arm alarms you most, out of tune
with the rest of the form—why is the right normal?
As if normal outfaced psychological leanings and even
onanistic impulses that could prove as overwhelming
as rage, though one would need to disentangle thread
after thread of rising and falling rhythm, a convention.
Mother-of-pearl opera glasses serve an ornamental
function unless you really think you can zero in on,
say, the face of the lady wearing horns and blonde braids,
a figment of Madison Avenue circa 1969 or an actual
Teutonic trapping presented on stage to a live audience.
Movies may have been made, thus costumed and scored
but one needs Moses in full Charlton Heston mode
to present Tablets of Understanding on this matter.
Sit at the edge of the chesterfield to hear the rest
of the poem over the drone of your personal Sturm
und Drang. One’s obligations to a stranger are limited
by the treatment received during the surprise visit.
Not everyone likes the pop of champagne bottles
and balloons. And need I ask why you look like
marble this evening, or Jerusalem Stone properly
speaking given the faintest pink hue. More questions
themselves would speak of an absent interest, with no
desire to ask for forgiveness—or stare at the turquoise
mermaid figurine in the glass case to avoid meeting
the stoned blue of your eyes and their wounded
beseeching for something like closure but less final.

Salvatore Difalco is a Sicilian Canadian retired counsellor for incarcerated high risk youth who has turned to poetry to rhythmically vent his demons and what remains of his better angels. He lives in Toronto, Canada. His work has appeared in a number of journals.

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