Faith, Dogma, and Heresy

It was Sunday, before dinner. My uncles were listening to the opera. O.Z. and I carried my brother in And laid him on the table. The women started screaming. My brother raised up on his side With dried blood on his hands, We killed those goddamn Canale brothers And nobody is ever going to touch us! The men shut their eyes and danced. We drank until morning When everything was quiet. They wiped their eyes, kissed us goodbye and left.