He’s stretching neck and chin to tighten the knot
he wears to the frankincense of Sunday Mass.
Yesterday the sunshine fell into the cellar,
where she dipped the white broadcloth
into the sink that stank of ferrous lime:
she rapped it on the washboard’s ribs
then cranked it through the dreadful wringer.
No books in that house but one broken-spine
door-to-door World of Knowledge.
“That book,” they said, “is all we need.
The answer to everything is in that book.”
She stands behind him, shaking out
her crisp curls. He’s sober today, checks
for razor nicks, and doesn’t speak to us.
A summer morning. Latin introit. Cinnamon buns.
He lets me touch the perfect knot before
he drives cakes and me to his sister’s house.
Anisette. Fernet. What was church to me?
I couldn’t think “Each of us is church.”
That came later, when he died. She’s lost
in that bathroom mirror, even at mass,
the violet zircon earrings, choker,
floral lowcut dress. I kept quiet,
lost in fantasies of absolution
and deliverance. We bonded with
our ragged silences, which made us one.
I never left the cellar. I wear white shirts.
Next Sunday’s knot took shape the same.
—W. S. Di Piero
Simone Di Piero’s most recent book of poems is The Complaints. He lives in San Francisco.
