A Poem in Which My Son Wants to Hear a Story
by Gabriel Furmuzachi

I speak to him in an old
musty and inveterate,
with a faint
whiff of salty cheese
and home-made bread.

Here, dragons
have only four letters,
cars are
complicated machinery
and polenta
is made up of eMs.

Here, to be
is thinner than
a spider’s thread.

I let him have it,
this language
of mine,
one word
at a time:
medicine for an illness
to come.

Curled up in his bed,
he asks for a story.

His fingers
follow obscure trails
along my scalp.

“A story from here”,
he tells me
“in your tongue.”