Another time—young, handsome,
and likely high on laced grass,
at a Sicilian wedding anniversary,
I asked a beautiful mob wife to dance,
and flirted with her on the floor.

Right away, my father drove me home.
“I’m saving you the beating
of a lifetime. Sleep it off.
In the morning, you apologize.”

I couldn’t believe how messed up I was—
the drugs, the homemade wine,
full of amorous traces from the earth,
and the woman’s smouldering beauty.

When I apologized the next day,
I saw bullets in her husband’s guns—
but in his wife’s dark eyes—
a trace of arousal, a flicker of regret.