Translated by Anthony Molino
I was born in Rockaway， below Brooklyn， on a strip
of land that looks like a fat finger stretching into the Atlantic.
I remember no woman who cherished my cradle or teenage
awe. And yet， it was special to grow up behind a hedge，
with the ocean every day in my eyes， special
to uncover the pride my father's Italian face couldn't hide
the time I brought home my first accountant's paycheck.
He wanted to play chess and， smoking but two cigarettes，
let me beat him unequivocally， on a combination rook-and-queen.
He ended by saying to always watch out for those treacherous towers
and the black-and-white crosses their long moves plot.
"Treacherous，" he said， somberly： I remembered the word
with a smile that Tuesday， September 11，
as I raced to work through Manhattan.
And I recall his warning now
that I am dust scattered by an obscene blast
dust lost among the dusts of others undone
below a ravaged sidewalk， next to the leaf where
never will my father find me not even
to hold the hand I'd use to play him. I came from Rockaway
where I knew no woman's love or warmth：
may one now come and ask the white irises
to bloom in my name， faded， erased.
Rome， September 26， 2001