Norma Sadler
isolena@yahoo.com

From Italy to the U.S.A.


He was five years old
When he got off the steamship
To the pandemonium of Ellis Island.
His mother's arms
Let him go.              
Hands passed papers
Over his head.                   
Noise flowed from the mouth         
Of the man in uniform.
The boy shrank back, 
Leaning against a stranger
Who spoke Italian        
Because it sounded good
To him.





Mors Certa Est


In the cold spring of one year,
I saw the deer already dead,
Lying in the snow, strung out long,
Head turned sideways,
The tongue against the ground, bent.

A pretty deer, small and slight,
On the trail near massive boulders.

Crawling on it, small larvae.

Now the deer stays posed,
In a snapshot of black and white.

And I can only be certain 
Of Death coming too soon,
Never allowing anything
To remain the same
For too long.