WHAT DANTE KNEW
1
Nothing, but he could learn to
read shame, hear sad tales (if not remorse
for more than getting caught)
from the woman's mouth, then
weep and faint at the horror of Eros in extremis.
So hear her voice, the tale rushing out of her for the first time
the only chance she'll get to talk to someone from Not There.
She is the standup tragedian, the Aeneas of the underworld,
spilling forth the tale of the Malatestas' fall
to the first and only visitor she will ever see.
2
The man she loved is silent, a nameless nonentity,
even though we know it if we've seen the opera.
The man is always silent: that's the way it works.
Hell like earth is the animal Queendom where women rule,
and Francesca da Polenta is the tigress.
Cats follow her, dogs, her brother-in-law,
in his eyes alone speaks the muteness of futility
and the curse of love.
Nothing is worse at a time of sorrow than the memory of joy,
a memory that never fades, a reality that blows her into walls.
3
To say the man's name, "Paolo Malatesta" is to acknowledge he existed.
All Hell demands of him is his Eternal Present.
Speech is not in the program.
KTW/12-12-06
--
Ken Wolman andreachenier.net rainermaria.typepad.com
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For he purrs in thankfulness when God tells him he's a good Cat.
For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon.
For every house is incomplete without him, and a blessing is lacking in the spirit.
--from Christopher Smart, "Jubilate Agno"
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