-Requiem for Celia Pieroni, second cousin, ten years my elder,

a young, indelible beauty...-

the Volkswagen's air-cooled engine labors

pulling its weight ascending the steepest of hills

then drops from the precipice where it hits the river.

water streams into the cabin

from the seams of everything

once thought to be sealed, churning

as if to a boil, upward from the floorboard

but Celia is smiling comfortably

from the passenger seat, unafraid.

I'm screaming like an infant from behind the wheel
as the bubble-headed Volkswagen

sinks on its chassis like a granite-bottomed skiff.

but the dream jumps to another location where

I’m dancing with Celia in the kitchen.

here, the table and countertops are bloated

with leftover food, plated, scattered and uncovered

indicating an end to the family’s holiday feast.

Celia wears the shimmering

silver ’55 shift whose hem splits

like a translucent spike far enough above the knee

to be conspicuous, muting the surroundings,

and we dance across the linoleum to the aroma

wafting from the table's lingering clutter.

but the dream falters here.

there should be women at work in the kitchen

causing a racket, making decisions,
shouting instructions to the recently wed, washing,
wiping and stacking through the instinctive ballet

of the holiday's clean-up procedures.

(with our women, in the time reserved for man,

there was always an immediate sense of disposition.)

but we leap to the dream's conclusion where

I find myself standing on the banks of the river

as Celia disappears beneath the water.