It occurs to me­—I’ve never talked to both of you at the same time. Now feels good. Okay, even. Each of you, together again, on that side of eternity. Me, on this side, so close to Milan where you drew portraits of turtles before I was even a thought, where your big brothers said you’d never make it after having a baby. I’m here now. Where the lizards tick and scatter over the tile and the grass burns sage. I’m in Italy where even the talking sings and your New York is just a marble behind my eye. I feel you about/above/emitting from my gums and my savior laughter. When I said “Don’t go” this is not what I meant. C’est la vie—the town just across the lake is always pressed down longer by the thumb of the sun. Everything in this place sinks its beak into me. In their bellies, the mosquitoes carry a bit of us, up into the mountains. I know what my job is.