The Last of a Generation

Tom Pjetër Gjoni, b. 1908

On the night they stuck him in the dirt, people came from all sides of the mountains
to hear the story of the man who cut to size the roof beams of the church in Shtoj.
Toma was known for building roofs, she sang.

The mourner said he liked to talk of the days when men carried pistols in their belts
and took vendetta for offenses to honor, wiping their faces clean with blood.
Toma once cut his prize calf for his guests to eat, she sang.

Olive oil merchants at bazaar once knew they could not cheat Tom Pjetri.
“Make sure they are full, may I glimpse Holy Saint Nicholas.”
Toma was the first Shtojak to read the Bible, she sang.

He said goodbye forever to the daughter he grew like the stalks of corn in this village
when he gave her to a schoolteacher who took her to live in the city.
Toma’s children will never return to this land, she sang.

The following winter he carved the cypress coffin and dug a grave
for the dying wife he took when they were only fourteen.
Toma never beat or bound Pashka, she sang.

He did not touch the earth again or plant a seed,
Leaving weeds to cover the black soil wet with the sweat of his fathers.
Toma could pull a plow over two fields with his bare hands, she sang.

He still woke up with the sun to put on wool socks and walk his cows,
leaning his body against chipped plaster walls to light a cigarette.
Toma kept his tobacco knife clean and sharp and wrapped in silk, she sang.

At night, when the old hunting dogs had gone to sleep, he played his çifteli
for his exiled sons in America, singing the songs his uncle taught him.
Toma voice carried in the wind to all the neighboring villages, she sang.

He woke up one night and walked to the window to watch his moonlit grape vine
collapse on the patio. His knuckles tightened white and dropped his walking stick.
Toma was known for building roofs, she sang.

Nicholas Nikic 1.6.2006