Sampierdarena, 1990


Do you sometimes remember the night you were born?
Rosalba was our gynaecologist of choice.
She smoked incessantly, little flickerings of ash
transforming her consulting room into a not unreasonable display of pointillismo.
Her babies were born in a fix of nicotine.
A gynaecologist who smoked was bound to do well
in those heady days when smoking was almost a necessity.
But a gynaecologist who smoked
and who was blessed with an eye that twitched…
You were born in the hospital of Sampierdarena
in the early hours of March the sixth, 1990.
You were crowned in the sweetness of placenta
and several little daubs of excrement.
Rosalba worked nimbly, her cigarette, her twitching eye
that sudden dragging of you into the world.

Your mother was led away to recover
and I was left holding the baby.
We walked, startled father, startled son, along the hospital’s marble corridors
edging away from Rosalba’s one good eye.
And of course I knew there would be a bar across the road
so I put you into my coat pocket like a kilo of trofie
and we slipped into the world of senses.
Everywhere there were bancarelle of mimosa
and I drank coffees laced with grappa
and little flakes of brioche landed on your head.
Jack, how many hours did we sit there in Bar Franco?

Do you recognise the child, Rosalba asked a little strangely.
Do you know, Rosalba, I have seen him somewhere.
I have seen him in the breaking dawn of uptown Castelletto
I have seen him in the labyrinth of the city
I have seen him in the languid Bar of Mirrors
I have seen him floating in the waters of Sori.


• Julian Stannard teaches creative writing at the University of Winchester and has published 2 collections with Peterloo Poets.