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
that bello da vedere means beautiful to see,
and I understand beauty
is always a train leaving the station, understand that
I’m always worried I’ll be moments too late,
as the poly-blend slurries out its braided restraints.
Something about my language on his tongue
as he discusses Montepulciano,
reminds me of a baby I may never see,
as the soaked cotton continues its unraveling.
Abito in Ravenna
You live “in” countries and continents;
you live “a Ravenna,” cities and towns,
the gruff Florentine corrects me,
tongue doing a pirouette.
I murmur vorresti rigatoni all’arrabiata
under my breath to feel the heft
of the words roll around, but