We Moved to Italy and I’m All by Myself
I. Via dell’Arancio
Before, the homesickness was looming and blunt
Elephantine on the chest.
Today it is dexterous,
Plaited down my sore skull, sullen back
Foot bottoms blood and dust.
Finally the rain arrives, but I’m under the sheets
If only fresh herbs
Or great goddesses
Bloomed where my tears wet the street.
II. Torre delle Ore
To quench my thirst for earthly things
I tumble the sheets with balls of wool.
They finish on the top rail of our terrace
A crisp and shocking white against the terra cotta and
worn
Yellow dwellings.
My pillowcase smells of sheep soon to be shorn,
Citrus flower shampoo and the scent of a woman scrambling
Up a remaining clock tower, collapsing and faceless and
Striking
The pool’s surface
Swimming free of age
in the wisteria-cloaked garden below.
III. Cafe Pacini
Next to me sits a handsome and restless man with a beard and a nose ring
And a cigarette
He is holding a paperback book- my husband’s favorite
The sun stares arms crossed between two stucco towers
At my exposed table
As if I’m behind bars
As if he’s disappointed in me
A callous sweat swells from breast to neck
Sinful
I ask for a second cappuccino.
It is soft and I don’t stir and the sugar sits
Sparkling on its cushy foam pillow
I imagine passers-by gawking while I slowly lick the white
From my lips
The man with a cigarette finished his smoke and
Never opened his book and
Never glanced in my direction.
IV. San Michele
Convenient-
My first storm is on the first day of September
And we are wading through it- a familiar thrill
Like the slick flip of a perfect omelet or
Every morning’s first sip
Gazing at San Michele I say “I could write a poem about this”
But you don’t hear me.
The man spinning an umbrella follows.
My second storm is the next day
The second day of September
You are at work all day and night.
I open the balcony doors- even the skeletal remains
Of our rosemary bush show green
The fat heads of the coneflowers rise as if finished
With prayer
The lemon tree’s leaves unfurl
I pull our big armchair up to watch the men jog
Through the courtyard
Jackets over their heads.
How many of them sat under the beastly sun of August
And prayed for this blessed day
As I did?
I take a picture
And never look at it again.
My third storm begins September third
And ends September tenth.
The armchair remains, gingham mouth wide,
And you haven’t questioned it.
Maybe you haven’t noticed and
Maybe you don’t care.
V. San Martino Cathedral
Monday evening mid-September
Full moon and a breeze straight from God
Sweeps smoked cigarettes down the marble steps
Of the San Martino
For once
A cool silence, aside the dishes chiming
In the apartment across the way.
A pregnant moon sleeps nestled under a blanket of clouds
Perhaps tonight I’ll sleep well, too.
Tuesday morning mostly dawn
The street cleaner shuffles and sucks those cigarette butts,
Among other sounds-
The garbage truck’s croaking starts and stops,
The warm chords of an opera student
And the sharp cackle of a seagull
Like a pleased witch at her kettle.
I wonder who she’s having, and
If she’ll save a sip for me.
VI. Piazza San Salvatore
I hope
When I think back
Memory skips the hammering sun,
My stomach ulcers, your dad’s staggering silence
And the afternoons I begged to go home.
Instead let me remember
The dead grass behind the duomo
Your brother trading a cappuccino for a musty cigarette
One dog’s grin as she chews warm pizza crust and
The other belly-up in bed, dreaming of me.
.
Lauren Dodge (she/her) is an emerging poet from Indianapolis, Indiana. She recently packed up all her belongings and moved to Italy with her husband and two dogs. In her free time, she strolls along medieval roads, drinks cappuccinos, and sits on her terrace watching the rain. This is her first publication.
Stone Poetry Quarterly 