I saw one of those spirits moving forward
in order to embrace me—his affection
so great that I was moved to mime his welcome.
O shades—in all except appearance—empty!
Three times I clasped my hands behind him and
as often brought them back against my chest.
—Purgatorio, Canto 2, tr. Mandelbaum
I miss you terribly and always will until I die
—Elizabeth Hardwick, in a letter to Robert Lowell
It’s sweet to destroy my mind
and go down
and wreck in this sea where I drown.
—Leopardi, “The Infinite,” tr. Robert Lowell
Purgatory is a place on Earth where already-saved souls reside in the southern hemisphere as shades we inhale. Where one is not, or will not be anymore, the worst thing one’s done. We’re still at the bottom of the hill, hearts fluttering up as bodies stay put in the antediluvian waiting room, watching the original cinema of wandering stars after a while of just…not. Mars hangs low, sun pushing through reddish vapors…