“Let’s go back,” I e-mail  her, a photo of her
lifesize on the wall, waist up, bare tits, “let’s
go back to Ireland, Wales, Scotland, to some
sort of Celtic backflash...,” back at least a few
thousand years, Stonehengeish and primitif,
“I’m Irish, like you,” she writes back, Lo Galluccio,
“my father’s Italian...,” back before the Roman
empire was ever heard of, just the two of us and
the zodiac stars, is there some village somewere in
La Floresta (between the Andes and coast) or in
the mountains themselves where you walk in and
everyone’s (The Apples of Immortality)
immortal?