SICILIAN VOICES

Something very like a person

in blue work shirt and faded corduroys

lies among the pepper plants behind

the garbage dump, his face closed

to all but the ants. Climb the hill

that leads to the graveyard, open

the wooden gate, and walk slowly

among the stones, the names and dates

erased by rain. Not far off the sea

rides soundlessly toward shore;

the deaf hear it as prayer,

to the blind it is the music of eternity.

To you standing above it all

the sea is a vast panel of shades

of black and white, and the woman

off in the distance hurrying

to the scene is no one you know.

Perhaps she’s the mother, perhaps not.

You should know that some day

not far off—it could be anywhere—

when the wind’s voice stills,

you and the old woman will hear

the same message whispered over

and over for the rest of your lives.

You can try to answer, but you need

words for that, and you don’t have any.