One Way to Pound’s Grave in Venice From the heights of the crematorium they pipe in Pachelbel’s Canon for the grass and the headstones and the empty paths and the lizards throbbing on the tombs. Heat, flowers, flies, sweat, heaps of names! Too many names too many crosses and bugs, graves helpless with life in a garden bereft of tourists. . . Eight months since that day. Eight months since the day of my father’s funeral. Five people showed up and it was over in a few minutes. Father who shipped out for America from Hamburg, 1939, with a big J stamped on his papers and branded with the name “Israel” Father who isn’t speaking to me anymore.
I’ll write him a postcard tonight. I’ll say I’m doing fine, mostly. What does the post office do with mail that bears no stamps? “You’d love the Carpaccio at the Trattoria Garibaldi, you’d love the rooftop bar of the Danieli, though you’d hate the service and yell at the help. . .” Without a father I’m afraid. Heat, flowers, mosquitoes, heaps of names and the Rough Guide accepts the tears that come and the map the guard drew for me so I could pick my way toward Pound: this too gets smudged and wet because I walked into that hospital room (“PLEASE SEE NURSE BEFORE OPENING THIS DOOR”)
Birth Mother Mercy • 21