Paul Vanni
Volumes of Shakespeare, Sophocles, Steinbeck,
on the chair beneath the second floor window,
propped open all summer, while on the bed,
away from sunlight admitted by the window,
face down, lies the thick new paperback relating
the sad saga of The Fall of Japan;
unframed, against the base of the lamp on
the chipped nightstand, stands a picture of
the group of us from school who have just
made our First Communions; I’m standing
in third and last row, second from the right;
over the bed, the faded Crucifix; on the
the bookcase in the corner, the incense
cast in the figure of Buddha, beside the
thick white candle which often I keep lit.
My Room: the place of daydreams in dim
sunlight, a place of desired sanctuary, of
contemplation, but at times a place of restless
sleep punctuated by uneasy dreams, pajamas
sometimes soaked in sweat. The door I always
kept closed did not prevent the infiltration of
angry voices, of shouting flavored with curses,
obscenities, occasional but unnerving sounds of
silverware and crockery smashed against the floor.
The burning incense, contemplation, aloofness,
my books, light flickering from those thick white
candles: distractions which so many times failed
to deflect the intrusion of lingering dark memories.