Ray Cicetti
To September
I say your name
but you’re already here,
in the fallen leaves,
the lengthening nights.
On an empty beach,
a lone fisherman casts his line
into what he does not know.
Swallows gather for their long flight south
above the bent brown grass.
The shadowed fields carry insects’ chants.
The osprey nest over the green meadow
filled now only with moonlight.
Cacio e Pepe
The waiter smooths the linen tablecloth,
puts the pasta in front of me,
then spoons Pecorino over it.
I give him a thumbs up.
My napkin smiles at me.
The fork and spoon sing.
My senses carry me to another world—
my grandmother’s house.
How she stood happy at the kitchen table
as I twirled the pasta that fell
like sunlight over the plate.
And for a few moments
I am not in despair that whatever
comes together comes apart—
how many days I’ve spent, restless,
in search of what I already have.