Wellington
you dislike
hearing sad things
especially in summer,
but my mother
finally thinks to cook a meal,
opens the wine, pots the pasta,
changes her mind and goes to bed.
She was dressed for sleep
anyway.
Lemony tortellini
cools
in its own sweat.
Six three oh.
The news is halfway through,
but all those
other voices rise —
on your streets the people come and go
talking of isobars and global
warming; ice islands
stretching apart,
floating their own way
over recalcitrant seas.
Down by your lagoon
students buy rum gelato,
young burghers hoping
for love
by ice cream.
If they sit
and dangle their feet, they see
a few flying fish, pinnacling
above the cool water like satellites.
But my mother, Wellington, you have overheated.
Your stubby fingers besot her, they make
everything
seem acquainted.
Potent city,
she cares for you,
she wanders
at your palms.
Seven oh oh.
The fish in the lagoon
mouth tiny bubbles
and do not
leap. My mother sleeps, with windows open,
breathing by reflex
as I
clear the kitchen.
On your streets, the people think of evening;
far and quiet, those lips of ice still falling.