INVESTITURE AT CECCONI'S
for David Kalstone
Caro, that dream (after the diagnosis)
found me losing patience outside the door of
"our" Venetian tailor. I wanted evening
clothes for the new year.
Then a bulb went on. The old woman, she who
stitches dawn to dusk in his back room, opened
one suspicious inch, all the while exclaiming
over the late hour--
Fabrics? patterns? those the proprietor must
show by day, not now -- till a lightning insight
cracks her face wide: Ma! the Signore's here to
try on his new robe!
Robe? She nods me onward. The mirror tryptich
summons three bent crones she diffracted into
back from no known space. They converge by magic,
arms full of moonlight.
Up my own arms glistening sleeves are drawn. Cool
silk in grave, white folds--Oriental mourning--
sheathes me, throat to ankles. I turn to face her,
uncomprehending.
Thank your friend, she cackles, the Professore!
Wonderstruck I sway, like a tree of tears. You--
miles away, sick, fearful-- have yet arranged this
heartstopping present.
Raritan (Winter 1987), 12-13; Collected Poems (New York: Knopf, 2002), 580.