That’s what I think of the poem “Certain as Afternoon,” the title poem of my new book.
The poem is about the beginning of the end–about death, but not about the moment of dying. The poem is about the moment death is born and no one knows it. Like quiet rain in the night, and you wake up and look out the window and say, “Hey look! It rained in the night. I wonder when? I didn’t hear anything.”
In the poem, there is a “we.” The “we” is me and Pio, of coruse, but it is also any other “we” in the world. In the night while we are sleeping in our room, something else enters the room quietly like rain in the night. No one knows the moment it comes. But when we awaken in the morning it is there in the room with us, certain as afternoon.
Because the one thing you can be sure of in the morning, on any morning, is that the next thing to arrive is afternoon. And when the end has begun, it’s arrival follows as naturally as afternoon follows morning.
death came quietly
like rain in the night
no one knew the
moment it began
there was no thunder
no lightening
when the sick cells
began to divide then
send out seeds
when we woke in the
morning
it stood in the
room with us
certain as afternoon
la morte cominciò a formarsi
silenziosamente
come pioggia nella notte
nessuno sapeva il momento
del suo inizio
non c‘erano tuoni
nè lampi
quando le cellule malate
cominciarono a separarsi
ed a disseminarsi
quando ci siamo svegliati
al mattino
era lì in piedi
nella stanza con noi
certa come il pomeriggio
Hablando Sola / Talking to Myself 