BAD MEMORIES

From my heart hang
the eyes of a dog and, below,
a letter from a peasant mother.
When I was 12
some days, at dusk,
we’d take our meagre, filthy bitch
down to the basement.
We’d belt her with a cable and later
with iron bars and timber. (That was it,
that was it.
She’d moan,
and pleading drag herself, piss herself,
and we’d hang her to strike harder ).
That dog went with us
in the fields and hills. She
was fast and she loved us.
When I was fifteen,
one day, I don’t know how,
an envelope came to me
with a soldier’s letter.
His mother had written. I don’t remember:
“When are you coming? Your sister doesn’t speak to me.
Can you not send some money”
And, in the envelope, folded, five stamps
and tobacco papers for her son.
“Your mother loves you”.
I don’t remember
the name of the soldier’s mother.
That card didn’t arrive at its destination:
I robbed the soldier’s smoking papers
and broke the words that said
his mother’s name.
My shame is as big as my body,
but even if it were as big as the earth
I couldn’t go back and peel
the cable from that flesh or send
the soldier’s card.