One day Arlecchino got fed up
with being a lowly,
disrespected servant,
and he wanted to do something fancy
to catch the emerald eye
of his dove-cheeked innamorata
before that buffoon Pedrolino
got his wolfish paws on the fair,
the clever,
the incomparable Smeraldina.
So he stole
the human-leather bound magic book
of his master Il Dottore Faustus,
formerly of Trier,
and when next the moon was full,
standing where three roads met
and wearing the prescribed
red and black checkered robe
and starry tiara,
Arlecchino performed the rite
just as it was writ,
in pure ecclesiastical Latin
with just a hint of Bergamene accent,
and waving his slapstick like a wand
he summoned Sibyla the Fairy Queen
to help him search for buried treasure
and a better future.
The Blue Lady rode down
from the heavens on the back
of a black goat from Venusberg,
and Arlecchino took the puppy
from the cage,
chanted barbarous Chaldaic,
and twisted off the puppy’s head
with his work-calloused hands
while maintaining full eye contact with Sibyla.
Then he poured puppy blood
into the trench he’d dug,
and once she had drunk
the peace offering,
she was more amenable
and showed him the way below
to a cave full of gold and other riches.
At least that’s what she told him.
In truth the cave contained a table
set for a royal feast, with every kind
of delicacy or drink he’d ever dreamed of
in his straw-strewn loft above the donkey pen,
his stomach cramping from hunger
and from beatings.
Sitting at the head of the table
was the darkly beautiful Sibyla
in a blue-green gown
that did the most wonderful things
to her ample bosoms,
her locks let loose
and glittery facepaint on,
she told him with a voice
like honey wine
that he could have whatever
of the repast he wanted
if he’d just forget Smeraldina
and remain underground with her forever.
And Arlecchino said, “Smerawho?”
