JOSEPH VITO ROMANO - POEMS

​Slipping Away

​Joseph Vito Romano was born and raised in Albany, New York and is a graduate of the University at Albany where he earned a Bachelor’s degree in English. Since completing his undergraduate program he has hitchhiked South America and bicycled down the east coast of America. He currently lives in Vail, Colorado where he reads, writes, and works as a Ski Patroller.

            We’ve been here for nearly a year, the longest
            yet. It’s fall in upstate New York and the colors
            of the world bleed out like an open wound
            the rotten deck we’re seated on wishes to give up
            to return to the forest, to oblivion. Loud creaky joists
            call out and red sugar maple leaves whisper welcome
            home. You talk once more about leaving. How we’ll
            break the lease, flip over the beds to hide the stains,
            patch drywall, wrench out copper pipes to pay
            for our move. You ask me what I think
            tell me how things will be different in our new
            home. It’s our ninth place in as many years.
            How neatly a lifetime can fit in a duffel bag.
            Desperation tricks us into thinking the same sun
            on a different latitude is freedom. It has us believe if we
            rot colorfully enough we may cheat cold grey winter.
            You tell me once more we’re leaving
            You ask me what I think
            I want to tell you I need a place to call
            home. And then I’ll tell you where my heart is
            I’ll tell you where my heart is
            I’ll tell you--
 
            I tell you I’ll start packing. From the deck
            the warm smell of ripened leaves comforts me.
            I look out one last time as the late fall
            sun moves beyond the rolling hills.
            Night takes back bleeding colors of the world
            still young, but I swear I hear it slipping away.
 
 
 

​Inheritance

            Some days after the funeral
            in the basement,
            a sunken concrete room with a singular bulb
            and a sea of boxes
            I squint at each lid
            to trace the dusty outline
            of your old hands.
 
            Coming away with boxes now, heavy with
            age like sunken ships,
            I organize them searching
            for something passed on
            I’ve been at it for hours yet
            I don’t know what it is.
            From the depths I haul up a short cracked plastic case
            the handle busted and the rusty latch bent
            eyes closed I remember-
            I unload from the case a projector and film
            and set to feeding the film
            through locks, and dials, and plug it
            in and switch it
            on, but it’s in reverse,
            and the burning 8mm smells
            like a funeral pyre.
            The projector fan hums in low forgotten decibels
            a pitch not meant to be heard again
            the projector bulb comes alive
            dust motes caught like trespassing stars
            I get the film feeding forward
            silent images flicker on the dim concrete wall:
 
            The ocean a grey blue,
            the suns reflection a broken mirror,
            old bathing suits, old women, old thighs
            wrinkles, chest hair, bald heads
            smiles. No sun screen, no towels
            No care. They wave but I don’t wave back.
            A shot of hundreds of them
            wading into it
            pushing it back.
            A long shot of July 1958
            drawn in the sand
            the next shot the ocean foam
            sweeping it all away.
            A singular silent image of my father
            a year old smiling
            buried to his head in sand, and
            for just a moment there’s a world
            in which my father waits to be unburied.
 
            I ask, “How do you turn this off?”
            Through the low hum and flickering
            inaudibly from somewhere else
            he tells me only, “Keep going.”
 

​John’s Song

          Tonight there’s only pin light stars
            glazed moonlight, grey vignette forms
            in the dark a coyote calls out and its pack answers like
            a breaking wave, a formless choir, a
            single silhouetted hymn that would echo
            if not for the blasted desert caliche.
            They celebrate a kill, maybe
            warm blood evaporating quick
            in the heat, or
            they scream to mark their territory
            a welcome to what they know
            and a warning to what lies beyond.
 
            I read once that Song Dogs sing
            when they lose one of their own.
            A cry for more
            a call to friends
            a plea to ancestors
            there’s no joy in this chorale.
            Their dead siren song
            is one I know. They sing:
            he was too young
            we could’ve done more
            it’s our fault.
            They sing that there must be something
            beyond grief.
 
            I want to sing your song but I don’t know the lyrics
            I want to bring it forth so the world can see
            that you couldn’t be a cynic that
            you had too much love.
            I want to sing you a song but I don’t know the lyrics
            so I do my best to keep the
            rhythm in my heart.
 
            The wind carries all voices down range
            until their lost
            the song is sung
            the pack moves on
            the world spins again
            I keep the rhythm only
            it’s slower
            greyer
            without you.