Translated by Anthony Molino

    I was born in Rockaway， below Brooklyn， on a strip

    of land that looks like a fat finger stretching into the Atlantic.

    I remember no woman who cherished my cradle or teenage

    awe. And yet， it was special to grow up behind a hedge，

    with the ocean every day in my eyes， special

    to uncover the pride my father's Italian face couldn't hide

    the time I brought home my first accountant's paycheck.

    He wanted to play chess and， smoking but two cigarettes，

    let me beat him unequivocally， on a combination rook-and-queen.

    He ended by saying to always watch out for those treacherous towers

    and the black-and-white crosses their long moves plot.

    "Treacherous，" he said， somberly： I remembered the word

    with a smile that Tuesday， September 11，

    as I raced to work through Manhattan.

    And I recall his warning now

    that I am dust scattered by an obscene blast

    dust lost among the dusts of others undone

    below a ravaged sidewalk， next to the leaf where

    never will my father find me not even

    to hold the hand I'd use to play him. I came from Rockaway

    where I knew no woman's love or warmth：

    may one now come and ask the white irises

    to bloom in my name， faded， erased.

    Rome， September 26， 2001