Roads go backwards in Old Tramonti, dying
down hillsides and through
brown, back-filled vineyards; then pinks and browns and whites
dot New Amalfi as lovers lick limoncello from their tomorrows.
La Camorra is out of reach,
and the white wine goes down easy.
Can you help me raise my dead Nonna and bring back Old Astoria?
And can you help me find the son of Andrea?
It's too hot to retrieve the sin in Amalfi's sands.
"La Camorra is out of reach," said the pretty Rome professors.
The Old Woman laughs, mocking the curvaceous turns that kill lovers
from Tramonti headed to New Amalfi's beach.
La Camorra is out of reach.
La Camorra is out of reach.
Isn't that Eddie Redmayne and who will believe us
when the Tramonti moon goes down?
Bathing the green night white.
1902 lives here safely if you care to know.
Rest sweetly little limoncello lickers from Old Tramonti.
La Camorra is out of reach.
Can you help me find the Son of Andrea?
No one can trace you to these hills.
The Old Woman laughs up a thousand secrets of Old Tramonti;
strangling the wheel, the curves, the water, I hear Old Lost Nonna:
"La Camorra is out of reach."
There is no knowing on this beach.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem

This Poems Story

"Tramonti" was written in the summer of 2013, while on research in Campania, Italy. Saladin Ambar is a professor of American politics at Lehigh University in Bethlehem, PA.