Artifact of Pompeii
Even if there are three sins, there still remains the story. In the story of sin, there is
nothing of Luigi but Luigi. Ah, Luigi—by himself, we approach him jumping right in.
Our using ah before Luigi like a mother would. Not diminutive ah—Luigi denotes
exactly this—Vesuvius in reverse. Yet there is always somewhere for hope—a big
solution for a big problem. So the first sin translates into words like—everything is a
problem. All of it. Even now, even though there is such a thing as point of view
through a keyhole and a window. The residents hoped for an opportunity in a window
or on a stair. We find them in solid stone, on a stair. It was the ultimate problem in 79.
Such a pity in reality. That’s aught.
water into steam
when there is no air
there is no fire
There are two things impossible to control. There is sin. And there is a volcano, just
as there is no way in dreaming to say no. What woman’s logic is this is most
frequently asked. Too tender and exposing but both original and woman’s. Ah
without a name denotes just that, leads us to think ha and that there is the story. Right
along side it, there is wording. And wonderment. It is in hoping that we name and in
ah that we hold on to naming and everything we don’t know. Lucky, when anything
worthwhile follows, and thus denoting time. As in this case, not as we expect,
nonetheless. Wonderful running these together.
Au Bon Pain
and asks really asks
is this really grain
At this rate we will forget the story. Or the story will us. And what is the third sin but
doing nothing is better. If the question is a matter of quality, so we are left with
something if we do. Story and wording? We conclude faithfully our story. Hope is the
wording, not even in is necessary. Love is a domain of artifacts. It seems and hard to
take. Much harder to put down words. His grizzly face after all. And hollowed heel
shoe. Ah, we’ve given the punch line, a way of closing down, but we won’t. It is a
hope there is, in not ending after all.
the graft belongs
to the tree
share tree thoughts
All this is not the matter of a mind’s eye where Luigi is concerned. Even at 20/20,
Luigi knows his. In his way, not embarrassed like some. Reconstruction as we say,
appropriately enough for Pompeii visible first in his digging around. Like all country
peasants, paisano and married—to a natural force of woman. It is so historically, and
has been when it works, especially in the old country. In the line of Vesuvius he is
wise. He knows where his gold lays. Among such men, some men are ready to suffer
anything, even scars, crescent scars from ear to chin. In Pompeii, in the south, a
crescent translates forbo whether actual, impressed or indicated. And brotherhood.
Recognizing a pattern in indicates and denotes is itself remarkable, thus our
remarking and impression. The men of proto Vesuvius—all marked and proud. The
question is—is this approach enough story without questioning. Is it too big—all men
for all time. Men as in human kind, as in drawn to a void or at least the dirt—to that
other and trembled phasing.
like a rock
a sea falls
in front of it
We see son and know the father and the knowing. Close to earth as they are still, still
avoiding a biblical sense. To begin, and the end of things. And in the sin the void is
filled. And son and sin conflate themselves without loss. We are moving right
along—on our way. The son’s entry comes later and is after all, unimportant now.
That he exists is all. And yet all sons seem refined and more so. Less forbo until there
is father and some ending. Even then moving on. Not talking in Luigi’s talking and
not just occasionally. The collector named him a monger. But only fish is prefixed.
Not war and not scandal. A lovely character finally. No wonder his wife suspected the
Introducing other characters might be a heading. We know there is the narrator, here.
But we haven’t mentioned the husband and just touched on collectors. Still we are go
betweens, all of us. On the one hand the story, all-important language, as it always is,
primary even in Italian. Back to the husband and making a living by the seat of his
pants. There is wife. Not in italics, just roman, that and Latin-speaking before Italian.
We think she knows more than she is saying, finally. But that has to do with time, as
in time passes and we forget. It takes time to get somewhere. Hold on, remember its
meaning. Trains, although not character, lending character, play some small role in
some stories, like this one near a station. Controls exist in such contexts. There are
inspectors of restaurants and of hotels. Most bahnhof hotels are C’s if their name is
bahnhof or train house. The grade doesn’t just land there in the guide. It is bestowed.
Yes, there is hierarchy and listings. Who would own such a simple hotel, such as train
house. No prestige in a job nor proprietorship: a marginal business where marginal
businesses prosper. Night manager sounds good. Luigi lands in a bahnhof hotel, the
very same as our night manager, of course, the husband. Down from Pompeii. Fully
storied there. We see that he is carrying our timeline nicely. The husband of the
narrator speaks six languages. He is happy, we mentioned that. Not so happy that the
seat of his pants came up. Another translation could be street-smart but the bahnhof
hotel is in an alley. So truly, he was alley-smart then. Worrying about what’s done.
burn something other
than a little boat
when marking a spot
with an oar-
not to tremble
Luigi meets everyone he should. This goes without saying for the story. Meeting is a
link and Italian, a grease, but perhaps too metaphoric in the transportation sense and
traffic, of course. There will be greasing of palms too for assistance. In the lion’s den
we are mute, a matter of survival. Thanking gods for the bleating of sheep and for
having too much to think about now between lions and noisy sheep. The proprietor is
making money off Luigi. Who knows how much, certainly not Luigi. The husband
with another point of view is either sympathetic or opportunistic mostly. Most likely
both, in small ways. How exotic it all seems and seemed. We did mention, night
manager. Time enough on the job for shadow-talking on stairs. A hotel one room
wide and stairs running to the top right beside, more properly, Hotel Bahnhof. The
water closet abbreviated to WC in the hall, no doubt. It is all at most a C.
a stone thrown
doesn’t make a mistake—
Now we can’t deal only in facts, but there is a garland and a bronze, one in gold, the
other, Athena. We are getting a little ahead of the story, trying not to lose thoughts
that we do at every turn. Pompeians lost every and each word to ash. So dreamatic.
There are still borders in Luigi’s lifetime. He crosses as a peasant. Not that he is not.
It is part and parcel of the plan and natural. In the tomatoes, among the apricots and
plums he hides the garland and lady. Where’s the humorous touch about lira tucked
around the fruit. Must be either a sign of value or of greasing. A bribe. A gift horse.
Check the teeth. Or sous la table. Who knows. It is impossible to say some things the
way we want without indication that someone knows something.
and nothing else
The night manager works nights. The wife, not. We schedule a meeting for a Monday.
No moon, no plan, just a ride to the top collector, already established. The collector
sends a car around to our apartment to pick up the wife and Luigi. The time of day is
external. No, that is not true. Luigi must be there already—depuis l’apres midi—with
the collector. There is no room in a car with doors like wings to carry Luigi too. It’s
night. Just a detail, but telling. In a flash there is the townhouse. The wife slides out
onto the sidewalk. Snakes after the driver. This is probably illegal, by whose law is
the question. Someone considers this transaction illegal, anyway. At this point how
much story is too much is such dickering. We are rushing. We are buzzed in, in its
hallowed walls. The collector’s house is a virtual museum. The haggle goes on, no
other word, until we’re done with it. Can’t be slanderous either, so nameless. We saw
the sarcophagus, one of three in the collecting world collected. A cold mark of
something in the climate controlled basement. It is the emphasis: alone and all of
lime—this ancient word for a flesh consuming stone sits above ground primarily.
Who sees it and is seen. Time lists him as the collector of, the this or the that, make
no difference. Coldly stone and stolen.
does the news bother you?
change the channel
Let’s go says Luigi. Where to? No one budges. The collector makes signals all night
as it goes. We are somehow at cross-purposes our parts unclear. Maybe the collector
is smarter than Luigi. In English he says he wants the lady and winks at the wife. The
inter-twist in knowing, a tension maintained and doubled. Come down. Luigi. Ah,
Luigi, come down off your walls. Even your blue eyes can’t save you. Take the
money. All the games. Wear the garland, even though yours is gold, theirs laurel. All
the pleasure is done. Fifteen thousand Swiss francs, for Athena. The garland in a
cotton bed, perhaps just thrown in. Imagine that. The final question how to fit fifteen
thousand in the heel of a shoe or anywhere else. Keeping two small oil vessels in
among our fruit.
Chapters and verses adapted from, influenced by or paraphrased from—
Marcus Aurelius and His Times,
The Transition for Paganism to Christianity.
Marcus Aurelius: Meditations.
Walter J. Black, Roslyn, New York, 1945.
Barbara Maloutas lived for 5 years in Basel, Switzerland where she studied graphic design. She is one of the winners of the 2002 New Issues first book in poetry contest for In a Combination of Practices. She is the winner of the 2003 New Michigan Press Chapbook Contest for Practices. Her work has also appeared in 2003 edition of Aufgabe and the 2003 online editions of Segue and Tarpaulin Sky. “Artifact of Pompeii” is from a poetic prose work tentatively entitled This Issue of Evropi. She spends what time she can in Greece.