The Compagnia dell’Imbuto Confuso is performing “Becoming Anselmo / Defend Myself”
I cannot defend myself
against what
happens at the same time—
her cry, her bending
forward, letting herself fall—
as I open the door at
the end of the narrow corridor,
formed by the gap
between the right-hand wall
(as seen from the
floor-to-ceiling shop window)
and the long side
of the counter,
leading into the dimly lit stairwell.
I see myself walking across the
courtyard,
holding my mother’s hand.
She tells me:
one thing happens,
the other you imagine.
I didn’t have the words—
not the right ones—
that could explain
that I am here and there
at once,
in the midst of
the funeral procession,
at the head of
which the musicians
sway their bodies forward,
far forward,
then back again, just as far,
their faces red, cheeks
puffed,
blowing into their instruments.
Two strike their drums,
while the mourners who
follow behind them
mirror the same movements—
forward, and back.
I, among them, under the
burning sun, can
smell them.
I have to close my eyes,
hear the screech of trumpets,
the slap of drumsticks on tin—
and at the same time,
I am holding my mother’s hand.
She says it’s impossible.
At the same time,
I lock the door behind me,
step down the three steps
to the covered gateway,
open the small door
set into the towering gate,
cross the courtyard
as my mother stretches out
her arms—
first toward me,
then, in despair,
toward the sky.
I unlock the cellar door
and descend the steep stairs.
Now,
I am beyond her reach.
