Thursday of the Secrets

Celebrations for the dead
were not useless, when “Fernando”
started to play and I heard that
song for the first time with the 

beginner’s mind of one who had lost

and the sea of dancers fumbled
awkwardly during last call
between one another: 

“If I had to do the same again, I would my friend,”

all of them sang. Not knowing they
were a part of a secret elegy, not

knowing they were telling 

our story. 

Celebrations for the dead
were not useless, when I walked
down the center aisle of the church
after your funeral mass had ended. 

The one with the Joan of Arc windowpane
that always seemed to wink at me
with cautious approval.

The one where you had wanted
us to be married. 

Your mother handed me
a bundle of white lilies

to place at the altar

and as if she had heard the
terrible news all over again,

she clasped a palm
to her mouth and whispered
“You look like a bride.”

Not all celebrations

are happy ones.

Celebrations for the dead
were not useless, when the
medical tape rolled out
from underneath the secretary desk,
and my best friend asked
where it came from.

“It’s nothing,”
I had said. 

But I had lied. 

Celebrations for the dead
were not useless, but on your
birthday it didn’t feel right.

I couldn’t sit at the market
where you taught me last
year about the Alpini and their

lonely military chants.

I couldn’t drink at the backlit bar
where I first heard you speak Italian
to the waiter from Naples,
sipping on a cherry-soaked Negroni
in bewilderment that

you were mine.

No, celebrations for the dead
were never useless. 

But I stayed home that night.