Thursday, March 15, 2018

Beatrice's a Selfie

Scusa, signore, dov'è la Via Appia Nuova?
I interrupt each face of Christ,
who turns,
her shoulders weighed down,
his bearing a cross,
responding:
Quo Vadis?
My poor Italian masks
the tears which burst their dams.

I do not know where I am running,
but you promised you would be there.
As you walk up a Via Appia Antica,
couldn't you just do me the courtesy
of pointing out some other way?

Scusa, scusa, scusa.
His face wrinkled,
Her brows furrowed,
something about the question
is befuddling.

I have just enough Italian to understand
sinistra and destra.
Between those and
gesticulations,
I piece together the road home.
I am always getting lost.
And can never find the Tiber.
Each morning run's a wager.
Home is an Air BnB which smells of cats,
littered with dolls—
no joke—in cradles.

This can't be the way.

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