So, I'm on this trip to Rome to write poetry. Here's some poetry that I wrote on this trip to Rome.
This poem is titled Apertures. It's about apertures.
Aperture I
Everything is a portal to something.
Take this bust, for example.
Look at the hairstyle, the piles of sweeping feathers, the loosely hanging open shirt.
In spite of the spited face, the portrait could be of an 80s heartthrob.
1680s? 1980s?
Choose a century
Aperture II
St Peter, I think, his eyes upturned,
above him, the Lord, shrouded in blue, and his mother,
she leans down to offer insight, to put a thought through him.
The saint’s mouth the divine speaks through,
and all around fat babies, up in the sky
and at his feet, they pray, offer adoration
(they are aperture through which adoration flows).
Through a hole in the clouds, a listing ship,
the unseen souls on board prepare to enter the gate
he guards, or fall through
a hole in the earth to damnation.
Aperture III
Heavenly angel on a cloud,
your toga flies around you,
and is slipping off one shoulder so you have to hold it up
lest we get a glimpse
of your breast.
You’d think in heaven the clothes would be better fitting,
or perhaps, in heaven, that they fall away so easily is the point.
In your other hand you hold a hole
that looks like an oso buco bone,
cleaved at top and bottom
the marrow in the middle
sucked out. Through
you, into
me, my mind a wondering thought:
what was it that you held.
Aperture IV
So focused,
the sun burns a hole I fall into.
My pen melts in my hand.
No words.
Aperture V
Aperture VI
In his side Jesus has an aperture that Thomas sticks his finger in.
It’s this hole that Thomas is transformed through.
Aperture VII
I go down the steps to an electronics shop. There is no one except a flat screen playing an Italian soap opera, soft focus, swelling music, domestic drama. All the electronics are second hand. This is not the place to buy a cell phone, but I look around anyway. The proprietor appears. I may or may not tell him I would like to buy a cell phone. We miscommunicate for a while. He holds up his cell phone, Telephonino? Si, I reply. He goes in the back to get another man who in turn gets a third. The third man tells me, No vendi, and he sends me away. Before I can ascend the steps, he calls me back to write an address on the back of a business card. I don’t bother to look at the words; I put it in my pocket and say thanks.
The blond girl and her mom negotiate for a mobile. Massimo, the man behind the desk, has gray hair, a pink polo shirt, and on his wrist a faded tattoo of a dolphin. He prints out a copy of the girl’s passport. Ukrainian. The young one pouts because her mother won’t spring for the expense of the luxury model. (Teenagers are terrible everywhere). When my turn comes, I ask him if he speaks English. He says, Un poco. I tell him I need a telefonino, and he knows exactly what I need. You need a telephone economicale. 24 euro for the phone, 10 for the chip. He pronounces the word chip, cheap. Yes, I say. Before we can commence the sale, Massimo’s bother, son and granddaughter enter. Business is on hold for uno momento while family is attended to, and for a short time, I’m in a Roman living room with three generations of Romans. The girl is dressed the same as my parents’ granddaughter, my niece, in spangled pinks. (Little girls are the same everywhere). She’s eating a slice of pizza. She doesn’t want the crust, so she hops up on her granddad’s lap and feeds it to him. He eats it. A server from an adjacent bar enters with a tray of drinks which she disperses. In the corner on the floor by the door there is a stack of dishes she clears away before exiting. The three men sort out their drinks: un café for the son, un acqua minerale for the brother, and Massimo quaffs a lemonade. At the end he bites the wedge of lemon in the glass. It’s a post siesta snack, and I’m invited to observe, but not partake. The brother, son and granddaughter take their leave with a, Ciao, papa. Massimo processes my documentation as two more men enter. Sera, they say. Sera, he says. They’re not here for any other reason than to gossip. They leave. Another man comes in, and he needs a favor. His telefonino is broken. Massimo seems displeased, but fixes it for him anyway. My total comes to 46. I pull 45 from my wallet, but before I can dip into my pocket to find one more, Massimo waves me off. He tells me if I have any problems to come back to him and hands me his card. I don’t bother to look at the words; I put it my pocket and say thanks.
At the end of the day, I empty the day’s travels from my pockets. Among the artifacts there are the two business cards. The hand written address on the one card matches the address on the other.
Aperture VII (Confirmed Relic)
Two Christians cross, and in the dirt one of them draws a line.
A fish, a faith is what you get when a line crosses a line.
The fishermen fish for men with a lure that dazzles and shines
with a promise that says that earthly death isn’t the end of the line.
Thirteen at a Sader. They dine on bread and wine.
This is my body. This is my blood went the legendary line.
Walking through the hand-cut stone on a path that bends and winds:
a graveyard with no dead. Just a line of writers writing lines.
I went to mass a San Pietro, an obligation of mine.
I held her hand to recite Our Father, but I couldn’t remember the lines.
Three strokes from the axe couldn’t cut through St Cecilia’s spine.
The fourth chop never came down: tow the dogmatic line.
Her head is wrapped in a marble shroud. She’s lying on her side.
Unravel the mystery of the never corrupted by tugging on the line.
I left a note to San Antonio. Whatever is lost, he’ll find.
A prayer to St. Jude probably was a more appropriate line.
I can’t remember exactly when I left it all behind.
I don’t think their line was ever congruent with my own meandering.
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