I lie on this crappy table to rise like dough,
but putting me in the oven won’t work;
here are four little corners so dark
that I light them up with my hands as I go,
and I gnaw them like I had a dog’s fangs,
and I haven’t since been able to wash it down,
and I am here by I-know-whose petition,
but I’ve silenced the church bells’ clangs.
My body often rumbles and lets out such cries
that one day I get a response from a female dove,
thinking I was a male of her species—
sticks a head in, peers down into my grave,
launches in a plumb line straight down, and flies
halfway down, then explodes back up above.
“My lumbering fish, my love,”
I call after her, “if only I’d had a slingshot,
to make you up with cabbage tonight is what I ought.”
Lievitomi in sull’asse come ’l pane,
ma non posso ire al forno come lui:
ècci quattro cantucci tanto bui
ch’andando mi fo lume colle mane;
e parto colle zanne come ’l cane,
io non mi lavai po’ ch’io ci fui
e sonci a petition ben so di cui,
ma n’ho posto silentio alle campane.
El corpo m’urla spesso e fa rimbombo,
onde un dí mi rispose una colomba
la qual credette ch’i’ fussi un colombo:
e sbucò il capo e guardò giù la tomba,
poi prese un volo giù diritto a piombo
e volò infino a mezo e tornò a bomba.
S’io avessi una fromba,
diss’io: lasconaccia valdinera,
i’ ti farei col cavolo istasera.
Also by Doug Basford (see all)
- Il Burchiello’s “Self Portrait as a Tasty Morsel” - October 10, 2017