Spring 1999
	Judith Baumel
	The Days of August Leapt          One Over the Other           (via Birago, 1995)
	We fed the lizards bits of watermelon, reaching from under the canvas canopy, each lunch, to place the chunks of fruit in sun along the terrace's concrete boundary,
	and crept then back inside the tiny place for naps, the boys in the parlor's narrow cell, we in the bedroom, Nando reading papers in the kitchen, soaking bread for panzanella.
	Downstairs, memorials, death notices, acknowledgments of past condolences were plastered on the city's streets and alleys. I learned these strangers and their families
	wandering and returning. We once outraced a hail storm pulling the bleaching laundry off the southern terrace. One day at table our older son surprised
	himself in accidental fluency by asking aqua per favore, might I. They were small gestures, small lucertole, a green that turns to gray and back in light,
	so lovely they outshone their serpent cousins, and jostled one the other till each set upon his fruit. Each came out furtively and stayed in pleasure, and the boys watched in pleasure.