Saturday, May 5, 2012

Sister Delia

Here is your headstone
Delia, born Lucchesi.
You are not here,
Simply your memory
And earthen remains,
Feeding the grass...

Simply your shadow
Sealed in polished stone,
Your history etched
In simple words:
Born in Brazil,
Died after 35 years.

The rosary surrounds
Your name, the rest
Is simply a guess
To the curious man
Lovingly photographing
The relic of your riddle.

Were you a mother?
Whose wife? Who loved you
Cara Delia?
Did you ride there,
Or did it come to you in bed
Who cared then, Delia Lucchesi?

Somewhere, a family
I do not know
Keeps your picture
In a dusty album.
Perhaps, once in ten years
They point to your image
And say, ah,
That was Sister Delia,
Born Lucchesi,

There may be someone
At that kitchen table
Who can tell your story,
Someone very old who,
In cracked voice recalls your
Young, young life
And is waiting to meet you
On the other side
Delia, Nata Lucchesi,

To look into your liquid eyes
And caress your soft hair
Someone who will laugh
And take your proffered hand
And wander up a misty path
Where all is forgotten
Even graven names
Such as sweet Delia,
who was born Lucchesi
in Brazil, 1894.

1 comment:

  1. This is excellent, David... among your best because your language is so easy and yet elegant.... you give your reader time to let the beautiful, sensual names play in the mouth. The sense of mystery and love fills the air long after I stop reading. Very well done!