After the Turks
by Robert Casella
After the Turks evacuated Otranto, we knew they
wouldn’t be back. The son of Palaeologus found asylum in
Rome. Marsh fever killed many. We smoked our stale
tobacco and talked. I claimed the Piazza Navona
had once been the Stadium of Domitian, but no one believed me,
and I didn’t press the matter. In the street a man was repairing
his ox cart, and the neighborhood lunatic was
pissing against the shrine of Pollentia.
Autumn leaves were driven by the wind along
the Ponte Fabricio, and the mother of Lorenzo Colonna held up
his severed head and cried out, “This is the head of my son!
This is how the Pope keeps his word!”
We sat drinking in a tavern not far from the Holy Spirit
telling each other that justice is often forsaken—
but how does one explain this to a mother?
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Robert Casella works as an advocate for the homeless at the New Beginning Center in Novato. This is his first poem in print. E-mail: robert@novato.inbox.as |