The death of Joseph
The sewing machine has arrived. Thanks mom for giving me this chance. I’ll learn how to use it soon. Don’t worry I’ll be careful, I won’t break it, I care too much. I know you gave up everything for me.
(Letter from RP, apprentice seamstress, 17 August 1973)
1.
There are needles and threads on the Singer
chalks and buttons. You curl up
a petticoat, a shirt with holes in it.
Sweat wets you, makes you unsettled
but you repeat to yourself that it is summer
and the heat of August is the most difficult to bear.
2.
I’m looking for the eye too
the piece of thread, the yellowed centimeter.
I think back to my mother who drew
with chalk on greaseproof paper.
I have to pedal to learn
and then remove the rust
from the inherited Singer.
3.
My mother, the Red
fell in love with the provincial
of the boy who smoked and didn’t speak.
The smoker, they said:
It does not distinguish a cabbage from an artichoke.
Eat whatever it finds.
He picks up stale and moldy bread
he eats some, hides some under the bed …
says it’s good, mold.
4.
At the age of eight you start a trade,
you have to grow fast, plane and glue.
The smoker became ill and did not work.
We repair your papier-mâché
with nails, hammers and saws
from brother to brother, from hand to hand.
5.
At eighteen you can escape.
Now I have to leave for the city
to work and to eat.
My father hugs me
he tells me about his brother Giuseppe
of the first-born young and beautiful
which departed from the south towards Turin
for the sacrifice of all.
6.
Joseph looked for a job
in a shop in Turin.
He began as an apprentice tailor.
The burden of exile fell to Joseph
the hole discovered at random
where to rest crouched
like a mouse.
7.
I decide too
without second thoughts.
I’m looking for the buttonhole, the broken thread.
With a little saliva you will do it
said the sweaty Redhead
powdered briefly.
8.
I chew the lost crumb
from the frightened and fleeing beast.
I think back to my father who ate
and smoked everything.