The Ocean is Raining in Porticello
It’s raining knives and forks frogs and ropes
halyards halberds cords and threads
in Porticello Sicily
and the rain is all that matters.
On the evening of the weeklong celebrations
of La Madonna della Luna primordial goddess
of the moon (and aren’t we all
aren’t Diana Mani Chandra You Me)
the spangle-bangled gypsy mother of god
magpie queen-of-queens in the rain-of-rains
is mounted on a wooden pallet shouldered
by muscled men in white jeans belted
with filmy red scarves paraded
onto a slick-deck boat promenaded
around the bay to the pummeling drums
and the rain rain rain. Rain
doesn’t care about anything but raining
tonight in Porticello a cello-full
an earful an amphitheater of rain
a port over-full a carnival of rain
fragranced by the sea and everyone’s tears
all the tears that might ever be shed.
On the other side of the storm-soaked sky
a whitening candle behind a parchment scrim
flairs a halo for the moon-bride who slides
along the oily tides pulling and polishing.
We raise our glass of moon-pale wine
in a toast to all things drenched – statues
boats and earth transformed and the sea
that doesn’t even notice it’s getting wet.