Rome Poem

-A poem by my wonderful study abroad friend, Melissa Croce, who articulated Rome in a way I've been without words for since that summer two years ago.

When I bring you to Rome, it's how I teach you about me.
Like the city, I let you see me in parts and pieces.
Like a ruin, you uncover me.

You discover:
Cobblestones, jagged like my nails, on which my off-kilter gait balances.
Wide bridges where I split eggs and watched their yokes sizzle into the cracks.
Dusty, narrow alleyways where I learned how to be alone.
A sun-lit kitchen where I discovered the joy of cooking with others.
The names of my future daughters, Cecilia and Lucia, blindness and light, two sides of the same coin.
The grave of an English poet, where I learned how to stop fearing death.
The cool basement of a white church where I found faith.

When I bring you to Rome, it's how I trust you with me.
Like a lover, Rome ruins me for others.
Like a savior, you resurrect me.

Together:
I feed you honey gelato, forgetting my own, dark chocolate rum sliding down my fingers.
You buy me a single sunflower tucked into an empty olive oil bottle.
We make a spolia wall out of pottery pieces, pistachio shells, fingerprints on Prosperina's hips, ruins.
I hold your hand when you trip over cobblestones.
You sing to me in the grotto of a villa as water echoes around us.
We find new bridges to cross.

When I bring you to Rome, it's how I tell you I love you.

Kites

*written for my beautiful Seattle community & all those affected by the recent SPU tragedy. Also written for the metaphorical cities we live in, the ones where we've experienced loss and forgotten how to be children.

~

Our city sleeps,

but I awake to the remembering

of a rhythm

my feet still know.

They lead me, stumbling out

into the grey light.

The cars and rooftops sleep

in a dusty glow.

It is easy now, sinking back

into my child feet, these feet

that skipped around broken glass

bottles like they were a sprinkling

of treasure, the music of pirates.

I follow my child feet back

through the alleys lit

with flower baskets,

to the corner where we sucked chocolate

off our fingers in the sizzling heat,

to the hill where our kites rose

before their tails snagged

on tree branches.

Those kite tails,

where we tied our prayers and poems,

watching them flutter like wind chimes,

a sailboat parade

rising into the bluest sea.

But our city has forgotten

the nonsense of kites.

And my shadow feet remember now

the roar of new flags in our streets,

like the growling of pirates,

who never sprinkle treasure

or believe in nonsensical things.

But their flags stoop over now

like old men,

their promises but a chasing

of wind.

It is best now, to sleep.

So I sit below the hill,

sifting dirt between my hands.

Your footsteps come so softly,

I don’t turn until you bend beside me.

You sift the dirt in slow rhythm.

I sneak glances at you.

You still look as young as you used to,

sucking chocolate off your fingers

and tying kite strings.

And then you bend to smooth the soil.

Slowly, firmly, together,

we plant one tiny mustard seed.