by Charles S. Kraszewski.
My father said, When I die
I’d like to come back as a hawk
turning gyres
high
on the thermals of the summer air.
What a way for a Catholic to talk.
My Dad? Metempsychosis? Go figure.
But, playing along, as for me, I’d dare
aspire
(no offence intended to any heavenly choir)
to come back as an alley cat in Ortigia,
prowling through silent nights
between the chalky courtyard of the Castello Miniace
and the star-flecked black skies,
sprawled languidly on the rocky heights,
curling and uncurling my tail, fixing my green eyes
on the dark blue waves that froth
(emerald green by day)
against the rocks,
or on the dusty roof of a cheap car
parked
along the Via dei Capodieci
lazing
while tanned young girls in short skirts
with You, Me, Coffee? on tight t-shirts
emblazoned
stroke me and purr, caress (and purr)
my sleek brindled fur,
my belly so fat
from fish and calamari
tossed me
from the paper twists
that tourists buy
at Le Delizie Siciliane
that
I can toss a canny
though apathetic, friendly eye
at any
water rat
cruising
from its den beneath the walk
to the frilly papyrus stalks
in the Fonte Aretusa.