Giaportia, Said Calvino

It’s crowded.
But no one’s there.
Not even your beautiful children.
Just you moving in the sunlight,
You moving over bridges,
You turning with canals.
Only the dead could make something so beautiful.
The sight of it is your own self.
Your own resurrection is occurring.
You feel the alchemical shift in your blood.
The dead stare at you, glisten in Adriatic sunlight.
The others mean nothing to you anymore.
You’re glad they’re not here now.
You’d have to look in a mirror, make yourself beautiful.
You’d have missed everything.
All that matters is the dead:
whispers of the dead, breath of the dead.
The dead inside your very self.
Your very self feels the dead slide up close.
You touch the heart-shaped locket that holds his ashes.
It’s been almost four years since you took it out of its box.
You wonder why you did today.
The soprano sings with a single cello in the church.
A stranger sees you cry.
Your cries make her cry too.
The whole of your heart, acknowledged.
“I brought you here so I could finally die,” you hear him say.
Even though he died almost four years ago.
At least that’s what you thought had happened.
Every time the sun penetrates your eyes, a wish is made to never wake up.
It’s not like you just heard a rumor.
You were there
When the light flooded the bedroom and stole him up, up, up.
The wake of an incorruptible moment.
You eat pizza in a covered boat with your children,
Here they are, you see them clearly now.
Patterns of the water, thinly spread for miles.
A promise is made to the Adriatic.
You feed crust to your little dog.
There she is, sprawled on the white leather seat.
Everyone watches the city floating.