Nuclear War is Bad for Italian Lovers

Collin Brennan

Underneath the makeshift tents of marketplace
you can cast yourself in the folds of night, burn a cigarillo
and truss the planets in a swimming net.

In the breathing
shadows, wounded fingers stagger onto terra firma
after months of exploration. But the age of discovery is locked
inside an older chapter, snuffed out to make way for
this new age of reason. Watch us.
We gnaw at the silken
crust of our lives. We toss careful dissertations in the empty fire and expect returns.
Our reason is this: these things are mostly valuable.
Can you say that yours is not?

And can you see through madness and the sucking heat to your last evening?
This is not the world in which every atom lies
within our writhing reach and account.
In which we measure clouds and mend them with our own spit.
In which heaven smiles on with teeth stained by the dark roast.
Stand at the base of eternity and still,
feel the paints of the Adriatic
as they stream
across your feet.

Morning, the day of the Lord:
The soda fountains spill blood
orange soda. Close your eyes to it. History has left this country,
afraid
to taste the current poison of its makers.

(the earth whispers)

What a thing it is to hear that we are the dark
grandchildren of the desert years,
sleeping on dried beds of rosemary
thatched together as medicine for our memories. The sands scatter
their conclusions. They wouldn’t have done the same,
given the chance. Only,
you loved the world.
You were capable of knowing what love meant.

Five boys on the cobbled street raise their loaded hands
in make-believe combat. The youngest stiffens his fingers,
reaching for lost air. A smile surrendered
to his conquering friend. A set of missing teeth.