Five Poems by Rafaella Del Bourgo

 

Imprint 

 

 

Just as I will love your handwriting forever, 

even after your betrayal, 

when nothing in your pockets could buy back the past, 

so too, pieces of my life 

continue to bear your imprint. 

 

Here in my jewellery box, the scarab ring from Melbourne. 

On the floor, a kilim rug we bought in Turkey 

from the moustachioed man who insisted we marry. 

And, in the kitchen, ceramic plates you made when I complained 

that I lived with a potter  

but ate off dishes from the Goodwill. 

 

The ring could be sold and the money squandered, 

the rug rolled up and stuffed in a dumpster, 

the plates smashed one at a time  

against a crumbling brick wall, 

 

but, one street in the heart of town 

must be crossed and re-crossed. 

There’s the cottage you live in 

with your sweet-tempered setter  

languid on the couch. 

Pairs of cowboy boots lined up in the closet.    

Triumph motorcycle 

used as a plant stand. 

 

I remember: 

Mt. Rainier in April, clear sky. 

You have thrown down a green suede cape. 

We are naked in the center of the world, 

scribble our love on the mountainside. 

Your arms are warm.  

The sun is hot. 

And my hands and feet 

burn in the snow.

 

 

Masseuse

 

 

he was naked 

reclining on his stomach  

her hands were on him 

and had been on him 

 

and because he was short, soft and overweight 

she probably wouldn’t  

understand how strong he was 

how strong he could be 

 

her hands 

cinnamon-scented oil 

and in this over-heated room 

music from someplace with  

astonishing mountains 

where hearts are forced 

to beat too fast 

 

and incense 

a hot breeze lifting lace curtains 

the muscles of his back and legs  

coiled and tight 

 

and because she might not know  

that a plain-looking man  

could be a fine lover 

could make a woman like her shiver 

 

he reached under that flowing dress 

for the twin globes of her ass  

and he waited for her to sigh 

and kiss his flesh 

 

and when she slammed him  

on the side of his head 

with her fist 

he quickly felt like a wind sock after a storm 

and his ears began to ring 

like the Tibetan bells chiming 

in the background  

to enhance personal enlightenment 

and well-being 

 

 

First published in Spillway, right reverted to author

 

 

Nikos in Athens

   

 

Tousled black hair 

and green eyes, 

a Greek god in the guise 

of a graduate student. 

You caught my hand, 

led me past cafes sour with yogurt, 

pungent with braised lamb, 

the noisy strum of bouzoukis, 

staccato of drum. 

Past couples drinking ouzo, 

laughing, their heads thrown back, 

faces lit up by the hot sun. 

 

We threaded through alleys; 

a narrow cat arched in a doorway. 

You stooped to stroke him 

and an old woman in black 

stared, then nodded her toothless 

benediction. 

 

Under the roof of the Plaka Hotel 

our bodies braided, 

salty and yeasty. 

Afterward, you whispered in tongues, 

learned, you said, 

from foreign lovers, 

slender ladies  

in summer dresses. 

 

Then you were a silhouette, 

dark shape against bright window, 

smiling as, 

covered only by a coarse sheet, 

I hungrily ate the tiropetes

your mother had prepared 

for a more formal occasion. 

 

 

Published in 5th Gear, rights reverted to author

 

Improvisation in a High School Drama Class for Troubled Teens 

 

You are dogs waiting to see the vet 

I tell the two girls best known 

for their skimpy skirts and combat boots 

and for the many days they take the bus to the beach 

to hustle military guys. 

 

The girls squat on chairs 

their hands drooping under their chins  

to represent paws. 

 

Are you scared? The first dog asks 

and the other growls 

then lunges as if to nip. 

I’m always scared here, she continues. 

They hurt me. 

 

The yellow-haired vet isn’t so bad 

the second dog says at last. 

Gave me dried liver after a shot. 

The yellow-haired vet, the first dog says, 

hurt me when I was just a puppy. 

The other draws back her lips 

reaches around to chew at fleas 

on her flank. 

 

Well, is your master nice? the first dog asks 

and the other shakes her floppy ears. 

He tells me to do things and when I’m slow 

he yells. 

I had a nicer one before 

but he gave me away. 

She scratches her neck. 

 

 My master gives commands, 

the first dog says, 

and if I don’t understand 

he slaps me on the snout with a slipper. 

Her wet, black nose twitches. 

Oh, they just called my name, she says. 

Throws back her head 

and begins to yowl. 

 

 

Published in Barnwood, rights reverted to author

 

Philosophy Lesson

 

 

My students discuss Descartes: 

I doubt, therefore I think. 

I think, therefore I am. 

 

I lean over the text, 

flick my eyes. 

He is watching from the front row. 

I doubt he knows what I am thinking. 

 

It’s the suit  

green as a forest, 

shirt yellow as a shy sun. 

It’s the week-old beard, 

black, 

that shaved line against cheek 

sharp enough to cut my hand. 

                                                                              

I remove my cardigan; 

bend down to turn a page. 

He sits up.  

Looks down my blouse.  Woof! 

 

Oh, those outlined lips. 

I imagine a plum, messy and sweet. 

 

I want to say: 

Lay me down on that desk. 

Pin me with your weight. 

The way to wisdom is open 

for discussion. 

Bite hard at the side of my neck 

and press home 

your argument. 

 

 

 

Posted on Rain Tiger, rights reverted to author

Rafaella Del Bourgo’s writing has appeared in journals such as Nimrod, The Jewish Women’s Literary Annual, The Adroit Journal, The Green Hills Literary Lantern, Caveat Lector, Puerto Del Sol, Rattle, Oberon, Spillway, and The Bitter Oleander. She has won many awards including the Lullwater Prize for Poetry in 2003, and in 2006, the Helen Pappas Prize in Poetry and the New River Poets Award. In 2007, 2008 and 2013, she won first place in the Maggi Meyer Poetry Competition.  The League of Minnesota Poets awarded her first place in 2009.  In 2010, she won the Alan Ginsberg Poetry Award and the Grandmother Earth Poetry Prize.  She was awarded the Paumanok Prize for Poetry in 2012, and then won first place in the 2013 Northern Colorado Writers’ Poetry Contest.  Finally, she won the Mudfish Poetry Prize for 2017.  Her collection I Am Not Kissing You was published by Small Poetry Press in 2003, and her chapbook, Inexplicable Business: Poems Domestic and Wild, was published in 2014 by Finishing Line Press.  In 2012, she was one of ten poets included in the anthology Chapter & Verse: Poems of Jewish Identity.  Her full-length poetry manuscript, A Tune Both Familiar and Strange, won the 2023 Terry J. Cox Award and is to be published by Regal House.  She has travelled the world and lived in Tasmania and Hawaii.  She recently retired from teaching college-level English classes, and resides in Berkeley, California with her husband.