dedicated to my aunt V. Dumi Filk
My mother has a cloud, sister.It comes every day to the sky of water spilled from a bucket over the polished cement surfacethat surrounds the wellit meets motherthey speak some words that only the village priest knowsand she weeps and withers…
When they were younga hurricane used to come thereit is grandfather, they would tell me, and in the sky I would hear an ancient Albanian song,it thundered.
Generation after generation this happens at the well of my houseclouds, storms, hurricanes comethey converse with the peoplethe last time a goddess came there and did not want to leave the sky of the puddleeven though the water dried upshe is not mute, she does not know Albanian.
Mother says she got the wrong housebut let her stay!
