Cacio e Pepe by Nastia Svarevska

I.

Would you teach me to hold a gun
like I hold that glass? What if the war breaks out elsewhere?

I ask a high-school friend who calls me to show his weapons
as I sit sipping white wine on a summer terrace. Ten years

since we marched up the Austrian Alps, he is noiselessly fighting
the real war, not the one I declared on myself in my head,

when I was fourteen & almost starved myself to death;
not against these troops

of mosquitoes
ambushing my sunburnt skin.

I have too many bites
& drink too many sips & suddenly, I’m praying.

II.

Imagine! There is no fear

in this forgotten city. I put my phone down, and a tall, gritty fisherman takes
a seat at my deserted

table, confusing me for his young, foreign lover. I wonder what language they speak
to each other & whether she wanders around the world longing

to be understood. His perfectly stable, widowed mother
makes wholewheat pasta on the neighbouring street, wins

a lottery to buy a new floral dress. His four small children
make a mess around the compliant Tritons’ Fountain, fighting a battle

with the colourful water guns. His worn-out wife
tries to catch some ducklings in the sun; what if she’s a poet?

& yes, they like it soft.
& yes, you know what