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.