Marisa Frasca

Marisa Frasca is the author of two poetry collections: Via Incanto (Bordighera Press, 2014) and Wild Fennel (Bordighera, 2019). Her poems and translations have been widely published in literary journals and anthologies, among them: Border Lines (Knopf -- Penguin Random House), The New Colossus Translation Project (American Jewish Historical Society), and The Journal of Italian Translation (CUNY). Frasca serves on the editorial board of Arba Sicula, a non-profit that promotes Sicilian literature and folklore through its journals, Arba Sicula and Sicilia Parra.

Sonnet: a moment’s monument

This ancient house contains the clamor of thoughts.

I’m the architect framing consciousness in a box

while holed-up in the year of deadly viruses

running at sensational speed around the world.

Now wake, sleep, knead dough for sourdough bread.

I’ve grown listless with repetition. This is what I have

— the good cup of domesticity, and windows

cracked open for a cross-breeze to repel the mold.

The moon is fourteen days of waxing and waning.

I look inward/outward to form a sonnet, famous

for endurance as the poets say. Who can endure

each day without expression? Words that speak of

grief have often failed me. Here is ground. A visual field.

A moment’s monument for my dead among the roses.

Deep winter

Overnight, little ice islands formed on the bay.

Lulled by waves they appear to be dancing.

I should be dazzled, grateful for my picture window,

the wide view, my head bathed in clear morning light.

I watch an unleashed dog run in sand, a man in

yellow raingear lags behind, absorbed in his stride,

maybe dragging his heart. Yesterday, I might have

walked the stretch of beach to start a conversation.

Look at that! Isn’t the bay glorious this morning?

I might have shaken the man’s hand, wished him

peace. Today I have few thoughts of fellowship

between men and women or women and nature

or women and our dreams. My mind seems set on

playing games. Why not a leisurely walk on water

or quick hop — one island then another, and how near

I come to being an arctic bird with rainbow beak.

Birds know nothing about people killing each other,

armies built-up for greater might, bombs blasting

and burning those already reduced to ashes

in the dark and dawning hours. Sky a black painting.

To speak of clear mornings and a glorious bay

full of surprises is almost a crime. My fantastical bird

only knows to rest on ice and wants to fly its buoyant

wings out of the world of carnage. Our blood-stained

arrows spin like weathervanes pointing north, south,

east, west. Where to next? Where to? How many

shoes will dance by themselves along the waterways?

Safekeeping

Sweaty from garden work he comes calling

with the first ripened cucumber, offers

first bite. I open my mouth with the rush

of a new bride. These days we look more

deeply into each other’s eyes. Did we say

Happy 50 years of union? How shocking

or should I say miraculous. So much life

— youthful lust, sweet disorders, far tamer

hours of infinite care. We did not always

wear halos, not always stand as lovely trees

but stayed long enough to own, then leave

our lapses in their shadows, succeed

in each day’s tending, guarding, feeding,

bountiful safekeeping — this love of ours.