Siestas y desperezos

The Irish had planted potatoes there.

The first Fall my family dug them up

and ate them.

That must have been about A.D. 1952.

In Spring in the cold clean river

we hunted watercress and ate it as salad.

In Summer we went north to Ipswich

and spent all day on the rocks

gathering periwinkles,

brought them back iced--buckets of them,

spent all day with needles

pricking them out of their shells,

for a sauce never sold

in any market.

We ate them over linguine

cooked in huge pots

in Rosa's magnificent kitchen.

Friday was fish day.

Masses were Latin.

There is really no way to recall the night sky.

There was less night light in those days.

The air was clean.

Laid out on your back

on the moist grass

where the potatoes

had been hiding,

was a universe above.

Half of the huge oak

had been blasted away by the hurricane.

The ancient miniature pear tree survived,

bore endless fruit every Fall.

It filled bushel baskets.

We ate them.

More came.

Some fermented on the concrete slab

over which laundry was hung and dried.

They smelled like brandy.

Laundry was white and heavy.

There was much linen.

It smelled like ozone.

Skippy the Collie chased cars

and was killed, died howling

and bleeding on the front porch.

Blood smells metallic.

It is hard to remember what world it was.

Massachusetts? Middlesex County?

E. A. Costa 7 December 2014 Granada, Nicaragua