Silvano by John Hennessy |

Silvano by John Hennessy

But here’s Silvano, half stooped, half
squatting, under a stand of hemlock, quiet
as a projection, his wolf hybrid

loping and darting, worrying long
circles, widening the route through
the woods where I’m running, Silvano’s

match in quiet, ears pricked, yellow fur
sprung, tail in the balance, sprinting, flushing
doves, fallen birch leaves. My anxiety flares

before vanishing. Silvano’s hunched
over a stump as if feeding. He straightens
and sees me, dirt, pine needles caught

in his hair, the long moustaches
he smoothes when he engages. Underneath,
he looks like me, carries ancestry from Rhodes

and Sicily—dark, but eyes light
as the wolf hybrid’s—and once we’re talking
I don’t pinpoint, fix the language. He’s found

an old rubbish heap, smooth-necked
glass bottles, prescription vials, wire hanger,
plastic soldier. The trash has its mystery, signal

sickness and thirst, afternoons improvised
with little novelty. Staten Island boy,
Silvano, he worked at the refinery

ten minutes down Route One from me.
Silvano and I are both surprised
to be crossing these woods, passing

and living here, complain of the cold
and cool people—Nuovo England,
he says, his tone full of variety.

Yes, and passing, I’ve never asked
what brought or keeps him here, and today’s
no different. He pockets the soldier—whose

child in mind?—nods after a hunting
party half a mile uphill, shows me
a grouse feather that’s mottled and bloody.

Silvano doesn’t worry. He whistles
and the dog comes crashing but keeps
distant, all wolf and no petting. Days

to turn back, stick to the brook below,
shotgun blasts up the mountain, whine
of ATVs, wheel ruts in mud, my flash

of orange sleeves, the shouts and strange
silence. And there are days I’m afraid
of Silvano, his quiet and odd green camo,

his convex mirror and wolf hybrid.

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