Capuchin Crypt, Rome

Four thousand monks form

one unblinking mosaic.

Hipbone hourglasses, chandeliers,

skulls like darkened

marble, stacked to ceiling

down the hall.

I cling to the pulse in your hand,

pretending we walk on

bleached tile. We smell cinnamon

rolls as powdered faces

pass, and children point

at their pennies in a fountain.

Outside, a woman buries

her face in the hot sidewalk,

palms extended.

Her cry follows me home

mangiare, mangiare, mangiare

            to eat, to eat, to eat.

 Original-

Four thousand monks fill

one unblinking mosaic.

Hipbone hourglasses, chandeliers,

skulls who forgot how to breathe.

I cling to the pulse in your hand,

pretending we walk a bright hallway

in America, ripe with plastic dreams.

Outside, a dirty woman cries

mangiare, mangiare, mangiare

            to eat, to eat, to eat.

The Other Michelangelos

In elementary school, I remember learning about river rocks. The current beats and pulls against them, molding them smooth, almost soft when you hold them. Over hundreds of years, a meaningless rock becomes a geologist’s treasure.

Last summer, we went to Florence to see the David. I could tell you about how impressed I was, how I circled him amidst a suffocating crowd, sketched his many expressions, and read about the million tiny sensors that monitor his body for cracks.

But what I remember most now are the dim Michelangelos leading up to David’s throne. Never finished or given a second glance, they seemed there to fill space. I studied the frame of a head, the bridge of a nose, and eyes still blinking away sleep. Would you believe me if I told you they seemed more human?

Somehow, I thought of one summer afternoon heating up Rupert’s coffee. He got it from the food bank, I think. He liked his coffee hot but not too hot. He waited for me outside the back door, while I zapped it at thirty second intervals. Three times he sipped and handed it back.

He wore his standard plaid T-shirt, black jacket, and long, white beard. I remember his grey eyes most. Head ducked, they always darted away when I spoke. He didn't seem to care for women. Thirty or so years ago, our house offered to let him use our laundry room and shower. Sometimes he stood in that basement for five minutes, sometimes for two hours. I quickly learned: One, never put your hands in your pockets. He hates guns, even imaginary ones. Second, never wear red, because he also hates communists. Third, don’t take offense if he calls you an Anti-Christ Roman Legion. Rupert often sifted through our garbage bin, returning every broken mug, stained sweater, and milk carton we rejected.

I gave him the coffee. He took a sip, and suddenly his eyes lit up, met mine. I heard once that he used to be in college. A really good college. He used to be going places.

Maybe Rupert is just like those statues, like a river rock in a dry bed, brilliant underneath and just waiting to be found.

Aren't we all? Me in my limp ponytail, missing my boyfriend, working long hours at a campus job.

I’d like to think Michelangelo comes back at night, or maybe just a fanatic, to carve those stones.

Flute

 

I held your long, silver frame. Grinning big, just ten.

My new teacher showed me how to buff your keys

and nest you in your case, a jewel for me to raise.

I paced living room afternoons, a fool with her gold
and finger aches. I hated our Hot Cross Buns,

seagull songs. Dad even sent me to the garage once.

One day, in our grey warble I heard something sweet—

a little peep of pink. Ode to Joy, our ragged feathers

slipped away for ruby roots, robin songs.

Then winter came, rattling our wings. We shrunk

in snow behind zits, veneer friendships, graffiti

stalls and spit wad walls.  

But we waited. We craved concert halls with mirrors

of color, wings of opal, sapphire and jade, every radiant

shade singing like icicles in a light filled cave.

Finally, spring leaned in to listen. We filled our lungs

with its warm light, shaking the marble from our song.

We stepped on stage—my black dress, your diamond frame.

The baton snaps. Stravinksy’s suite wakes. Crack, sizzle,

we shake our ashes into flame. Firebird wings rise,

and all the mirrors of color fill the stage.

 Original-

Scrawny girl holding your long, silver frame. Big grin,

just ten. My new teacher showed me how to buff your keys

and nest you in your case, a jewel for me to raise.

Living room afternoons I paced, a fool with her gold

for finger aches, arm quakes. I hated our Hot Cross Buns,

seagull songs. Dad even sent me to the garage once.

One day, in the grey warble I heard something sweet-

a little peep of pink. Ode to Joy, our robin songs grew ruby

deep and strong.

Then winter came in zits, veneer friendships, graffiti stalls

and spit wad walls. Wing rattling winter made us shrink

our plumes in marble snow.

We waited, craving concert halls with mirrors of color,

wings of opal, sapphire and jade, every radiant shade

singing like icicles in a light filled cave.

Finally, August in New York. Sweating in my black dress,

holding your diamond frame. Mom waves, and dad flashes

a thumbs up. I faintly smile, my breath clipped.

The baton leaps. Stravinky’s suite wakes. Crack, sizzle,

we shake our ashes into flame. Firebird wings rising,

and all the mirrors of color fill the stage.

Riddle

You can’t love me. Even your tender children laugh at my beheading.

But she is your phoenix, a letter you study, an apologetic kiss in a white room.

I carve cities, pick pick picking into the deep.

She builds bridges, cathedrals, and star-softened spaces.

How you hate my mosquito hunger and my gargoyle fingers.

She is winter’s oyster, a cocoon on a frosty limb.

I spread my children to the wind to roam, eat, and die.

She hides hers at her feet, and slowly they rise.

You quench me with acidic storms. I shrink inside my uniform,

but I sink into my cities. I crawl deeper, raising webs around her knees.

I curse your hands. I curse your aching shoulders.

She lifts your chin and sings the light back into your eyes.

I am the dandelion.

She is the lily.