Home

Io o o o o.

I am not like you.

You.  Uterus.  Us.

Seven hills,

Yet none my home.

Flesh of your flesh,

fleshed out,

Cold seeping in my blood.

The blood spattered on the maiden snow.

That force of nature, that femme fatale.

Roman fever was it?

More like two wolves muzzling against my face,

smelling the rotten flesh, waiting till the fire went out,

till I die like Perpetua, holding a baby in my arms,

like the baby I once was, flesh of your flesh, bone of your bone.

And the wolves gnawing at my bones.

That great fire started by one of your ancestors to burn

and purge and pillage and rape.

You kept saying ‘tewzday’, the obvious sign of your age.

And those wolves raised me,

I wrapped in their fur, no longer a lamb.

A wolf in wolves’ clothing.

Razed then braised.  Mais  on.

My home, my cassa.

La famiglia è la patria del cuore.