Three Poems

by Austin Segrest


Trastevere




When Mom died I moved her to Italy –
Trastevere, across the Tiber from Rome,
where I studied when I was 20 and she visited
for a week with time between jobs.

She eats panini, guessing at ingredients,
sits street-side to watch people and says,
“keep the cokes coming.” She wanders alleys
peering at menus, visits the baker,
picks up a bottle of Chianti so cheap
you wouldn’t believe it.
                    There’s a stone cottage
like a miniature castle off the path
in Janiculo Park. I found it chasing a soccer ball
and took it for a vacant guardhouse.
Before leaving Rome I tried to draw it,
but ended up drawing an oak.

That charcoal tree stood in her room
until we swiped her chest of drawers,
stuffing opaque garbage bags
with all her frail reminders, giving
most of it away.
                    She’s taken up
in this little castle with all her cats.
I can visit whenever I want, and we walk,
café to café, looking for that restaurant
I found last week, while shop grates roll
and old men fix scooters by lamplight, a radio
throating staccato soccer games. I’m trying
my meager Italian, she, her muddled French.
It’s terrible, the evening, how much I want this.








Vulcan’s Hollow




Vulcan drops his torch in increments so small
you’d have to watch the angle of his elbow with a sextant
to see. He takes a rust-slow glance over his shoulder,
cautious like he’s walking past a sleeper
in the dark, never knowing if their eyes are closed –
or, in Vulcan’s case, whether the extant population
of Birmingham’s Over the Mountain community –
the ridge-suspended clan of steel descendents
with a view of the iron man’s ass – is standing at their windows
gaping at the sixty-foot statue letting down his guard.
There is relief in the ember-strewn quiet
of yellow lights behind him, a latch-catch of peace
known by the teen when the back door seals behind him
and the world gleams, indifferent under sidling stars.
But there is also disappointment, because no one cares
about the iron man anymore – the heaven-hurled,
lame god of foundry and furnace – if they ever did.
A train moans through Jones Valley, and Vulcan blows out his torch,
shimmying down the recessed brick of his pedestal,
a motion practiced but nevertheless awkward.
Against the receding thunder of Vulcan’s lumber
along the ridge, his naked pedestal presides
over the Magic City, a stark absence, a golf tee of the gods.
The moon is a peeled grin, showing off its craters
in half-light relief, and you could see this
through one of the refractor scopes in Vulcan’s head
(a quarter for two minutes) during his hours of operation,
when the iron man holds his breath and clinches
every crafted muscle in a city-funded stillness,
dreaming of his silver lady. Now the scopes
are spinning wildly as he shifts his weight. They squeak
in unison, a flower-picking whistle. Vulcan stoops,
a giant darkness against the dark, a black on black
occlusion of stars. He reaches in a tuft of thicket
on the dynamited cliff overlooking the expressway
and clutches a handful of mangled school desks,
shopping carts, paint cans, electric motors, and his favorite:
train-car hunks of crispy coal, sometimes substituted,
to his disappointment, with burnt trees.
Raining a glitter of refuse down the stepped stone,
he crunchingly savors his city-staged stash,
his bribe to be still – the single, secret effort
on which the city government of Birmingham
and the Over the Mountain municipalities collaborate.
He crosses six lanes in a single step and plucks
a pink-faded sideboard from the Red Mountain Museum.
Looking east, toward his lady in waiting, he picks his teeth.
These south-most foothills of the Appalachians stretch
northeast like the swipe of some god’s finger-paint.
He can remember when these mountains peaked and towered
with the exuberance of the Himalayans. The contrast
of the hugeness of his foot, iron-sandaled
behind the alabaster cross commemorating Crystal Donner’s
fatal corkscrew exit off 280 onto University
is astonishing. A clubber along 20th’s lighter side
catches the bulk of Vulcan’s calf in the corner of his eye,
and tugs his lover’s sleeve to tell him something’s there,
but doesn’t know what to say over the bass.
Where the ribbon of new highway girds the eastern city rim,
where reforested pines, blue under street lamps,
nestle the hills like gauze, she waits, almost his size,
silver from his perch but getting greener every hollow passed.
The Smith god’s moon-shadow crawls over the shell
of Shades Mountain, where Mountain Brook lies drugged
among crevices. His kilt eclipses enclaves of homes
tucked into twists of stream-blown bluffs, and fastened
to the limestone eighty years ago by Vulcan’s very own
hammer, anvil and vice. Nearly to Irondale,
he crouches in the trench between mountains, with a view
of Lady Liberty: her sullen eyes gazing torchward.
He spreads his body flat along the banks of the Cahaba,
lying on his belly like a gunner. “I see you,”
he whispers. She glistens over swaths of new development,
as far as Vulcan’s peaking eye can see. It’s for this
heedless expansion that he loves her, just as the city planned:
liberty to complement his exhausted industry.
He purses his mouth and breathes over the sewer-grate
of his teeth, a sound like trains or wind diving into shafts.
There, he sees it. The beginning of a smile, his cue.
Out of the shadows, he side-steps the mountain:
a looming Romeo, naked in the muscular highway lights.
He takes a knee beside her podium, offering up his usual
gift of iron-ore, crushed to an orange poultice
in his rough, nervous hand. As usual, she refuses,
but lets him rise beside her. Inches from her neck,
he lights his torch from her green, spangling flame,
and backs off the summit to light her way.
Lady Liberty avoids his mongrel eyes and flits
over the same ridge he just crossed. He follows,
bulky and deformed beside her. She spins north
into the open palm of Jones Valley, a ballerina
in a box, where, millions of years before, a volcano
narrowed its cannon and seethed before backfiring.
Heaven’s outcast, Vulcan cannot pluck a star for her.
She is silver, now green, now yellow beneath the Pleiades,
and he plans again, he swears, to fashion her in iron,
but how, how to re-create that copper patina?
He’s never made anything so smooth. They touch
once, when she drops behind a vacant lot in Tarrant City,
and he cups her heel and lifts her leg, behind the knee,
from a caved-in shaft. Even then, her gown glides free.
Imagine Vulcan’s pleasure in those slender sweeps,
her every twirl a promise of rebirth. Vulcan, whose mother
dashed him headlong against these hills, was reassembled
for the World’s Fair in 1891 – idol and scapegoat
for half a century of plunder, and made to stand still through it all.
Convict miners, in whose image he was fashioned,
fed the valley’s insatiable spouts. Shot-guns. Fire bombs.
Police dogs. But that’s all passed. Vulcan escapes himself
through the shifting imprint of her gown. He squats
behind the sole remaining furnace, knees spread
the breadth of Sloss’s bundle, and plugs, with fingers
thick as oaks, five of seven lower-level stops –
cold for years – and fits his mouth over the two main stacks.
He waits. His heart’s vibration carries through the bowels
of the earth, tinkling chandeliers along the ridge.
When she reaches the climax of her dance, he blows.
What more could Vulcan ask? He plays his solemn notes
as if rewriting laws, rerouting trains, refilling holes. With arcing
limbs she answers what he knows: he’ll never take her home.








What I Know of Where You Went




A final roar of breakers
one morning rattles the windows
of your ear and will not stop.

This is the unbearable
whooshing, the sleep-sacking howl
that drums your spirit back to life

and gets you to go to the doctor—not
the years of polite suggestions
sharpening like your figure—not

the fear of your own demise.
This was your warning –
after these last slivers

of fat depleted in your middle ear
there would be nothing left
to keep your body from eating

itself – nothing left between
you and the whistling void.
You had set yourself in motion,

wound so tight that leaving
your body’s house felt like
the only option – a purpose

bursting as you diminished.
Where did you go? I couldn’t
say but you didn’t want to be found.

I looked where your finger choked
your wedding ring, in private
spaces where you vanished

in nightmares, floating
down a dry well. I peered
into vaults, membrane-covered,

and sifted through basins
of dry riverbeds, finding
nothing more than little tools, bones, shells.