Bellovedere

 

As a tampon bouquets in toilet water,

I think of Bellovedere—a wine I tried 

 

on a Wednesday along with an Italian 

man’s mouth, full of English.

 

I don’t know what reminds me of this.

Perhaps the red, perhaps

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that bello da vedere means beautiful to see,

and I understand beauty 

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is always a train leaving the station, understand that

I’m always worried I’ll be moments too late,

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as the poly-blend slurries out its braided restraints. 

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Something about my language on his tongue

as he discusses Montepulciano,

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reminds me of a baby I may never see,

as the soaked cotton continues its unraveling.   

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Abito in Ravenna

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You live “in” countries and continents; 

you live “a Ravenna,” cities and towns, 

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the gruff Florentine corrects me, 

tongue doing a pirouette. 

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I murmur vorresti rigatoni all’arrabiata 

under my breath to feel the heft 

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of the words roll around, but 

there’s glue in my mouth. Here, 

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I am a pigeon-toed ballerina, 

a four-year-old learning to ride 

 

my biggie bike, unable to 

stabilize, tipping off the seat—

 

Little Mermaid-decorated metal 

falling on top of me. 

 

Wiping frustration from my face, 

I smile, Si singore, abito a Ravenna 

 

where women know nothing 

of my gracelessness, 

 

cycling with umbrellas and lit cigarettes.

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Winter Warm, December 1807

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You brought the chill in on your buttons.

My hands, cold from the cellar, make their way

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from shirt front to collar. I circumvent you,

pull the blue-colt coat from your shoulders. 

 

I shudder—wined breath on neck,

fingertips on ribs of corset.

 

Inside, I go outside for a moment, 

imagine a star-speckled sight that keeps me—

 

as striped, worsted wool falls to the floor—

from hungering for my mother, brother, Paris. 

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Brought back by the crackle of fire

—within me—as you lift my shift slowly.

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Winter Warm

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The crickets’ hum quiets in autumn—

season of slow death, season of your birth—

silence making the leaves more necessary 

as night comes earlier each morning. 

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I sent the winter socks and sweaters you left me in May—

talismans I hoped would bring you back 

for wool-warm nights and blue-hue mornings.

They didn’t.

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Wrap your sixth love in as many springs

in your grey cable-knit, your fleeced Gold-Toes.

I’m slow-streaking across a vacant lot 

from the arms of one sweater to another’s,

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trying to find me in the in-between.

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