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Poetry
Death Wine
In memory of Ivan Illich
by
Mario Petrucci
That strange calm on Inis Mor
when I sat beside you at an island
of dark-grained wood. You told
of Death Wine - the bottle
each of us may choose so that
when our time comes we can
summon friends in one last salute
at the bedside. You said this
and peered through glass
to uninterrupted sky - you
who could gaze on the face
of a young century and tell it
each feature in its descent.
A better century might have
listened in rapture - asking
Who is my true Father? My
Mother? Some of us listened
a little, to the way intractables
were left in a pit filling with water
with one pump between them
to co-operate or drown. Thus
was work invented. Now I glimpse
we have many fathers, many
mothers. From you I sensed
a Dark Age is merely one
whose light is more cloistered
from the tourist. Ivan
I did drink wine with you
that moment you closed eyes
to turn your gaze forever
within and so much further
we drank in that backroom where
thoughts stir before they step
into the hubbub of making
themselves known. I salute
you with each thought. I raise
to you our Death Wine
the only draught worth taking.
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