When, during a weekend in Venice, while standing
with the dark sky above the Grand Canal
exploding in arcs of color and light, a man behind me
begins to explain the chemical composition
of the fireworks and how potassium-something-ate
and sulfur catalyze to make the gold waterfall of stars
cascading in the moon-drunk sky, I begin to understand
why the Inquisition tortured Galileo
and see how it might be a good thing for people to think
the sun revolves around the earth. You don't have to know
how anything works to be bowled over by beauty,
but with an attitude like mine we'd still be swimming
in a sea of smallpox and consumption, not to mention plague,
for these fireworks are in celebration
of the Festival of the Redentore, or Christ the Redeemer,
whose church on the other side of the canal was built
after the great plague of 1575 to thank him
for saving Venice, though by that time 46,000 were dead,
and I suppose God had made his point if indeed he had one.
The next morning, Sunday, we take the vaporetto
across the lagoon and walk along the Fondamenta della Croce,
littered with the tattered debris of spent rockets
and Roman candles, to visit the Church of the Redentore
by Palladio. The door is open for mass, and as I stand in the back,
a miracle occurs: after a year of what seems to be futile study,
I am able to understand the Italian of the priest.
He is saying how important it is to live a virtuous life,
to help one's neighbors, be good to our families,
and when we err to confess our sins
and take communion. He is speaking words I know:
vita, parlare, resurrezione. Later my professor tells me
the holy fathers speak slowly and use uncomplicated
constructions so that even the simple can understand
Christ's teachings. The simple: well, that's me,
as in one for whom even the most elementary transaction
is difficult, who must search for nouns the way a fisherman
throws his net into the wide sea, who must settle
for the most humdrum verbs: I am, I have, I go, I speak,
and I see nothing is simple, even my desire to strangle
the man behind me or tell him that some things
shouldn't be explained, even though they can be,
because most of the time it's as if we are wandering
lost in a desert, famished, delirious, set upon by wild lions
or plague, our minds blank with fear,
starving for a crumb, for any morsel of light.