Death of Mangiafuoco by Toti OBrien
Cacciutiello, cacciutiello staje zitto.
Chi te sente t’accire. Hush, hush,
little puppy… or, they said
he didn't say puppy but little
one, as if addressing a tiny…
Wait. When he was found
at mid morning, the sand shone
with a nasty spark of crushed glass.
In the shimmering light, he lay
sideways. Not bunched up, just
orderly tucked, as if someone
had staged him. Naked, and
his skin was clean, soft and pale.
And his sagging flesh
was more childish, tranquil, pure
they’d ever expect
as if under those rags, dirt and crusts
it had been preserved.
Scrubbed and scored, like a statue
someone had stroked with a brush
coming back to the indented sections,
each corner, each crease.
His hair stretched full length,
not over his shoulders, down his back...
No. Straight up, like a rope
sprouting from the top of his skull.
Like a puppet’s string.
Neatly combed.
Who could have managed
so fast to unravel his dreadlocks?
Not white, yet. Just umber, just dust.
Like a string
hooked to the fontanelle of a puppet.
Eyes and mouth were properly sealed.
The face looked serene.
Chi te sente t’accire. Hush, hush,
little puppy… or, they said
he didn't say puppy but little
one, as if addressing a tiny…
Wait. When he was found
at mid morning, the sand shone
with a nasty spark of crushed glass.
In the shimmering light, he lay
sideways. Not bunched up, just
orderly tucked, as if someone
had staged him. Naked, and
his skin was clean, soft and pale.
And his sagging flesh
was more childish, tranquil, pure
they’d ever expect
as if under those rags, dirt and crusts
it had been preserved.
Scrubbed and scored, like a statue
someone had stroked with a brush
coming back to the indented sections,
each corner, each crease.
His hair stretched full length,
not over his shoulders, down his back...
No. Straight up, like a rope
sprouting from the top of his skull.
Like a puppet’s string.
Neatly combed.
Who could have managed
so fast to unravel his dreadlocks?
Not white, yet. Just umber, just dust.
Like a string
hooked to the fontanelle of a puppet.
Eyes and mouth were properly sealed.
The face looked serene.
Toti O’Brien is the Italian Accordionist with the Irish Last Name. Born in Rome, living in Los Angeles, she is an artist, musician and dancer. She is the author of Other Maidens (BlazeVOX, 2020), An Alphabet of Birds (Moonrise Press, 2020), In Her Terms (Cholla Needles Press, 2021), Pages of a Broken Diary (Pski’s Porch, 2022) and Alter Alter (Elyssar Press, 2022).
