meditations on an italian past

salt water coats my lips

as i dip my toes into the Tyrannian Sea

Italy

doesn’t feel like a foreign country

but rather like a new day a new dish a new view

newness embedded within oldness

as i force words from my pen:

no memory at all is like no heart beats.

my skin has deepened to the color of cinnamon sugar

my hair to the color of honey sticks from the state fair.

you can’t force a muse,

it must find you, like a hidden patch of lemon trees on the hills of Ischia;

the beautiful Italian boys,

names like Jean-Carlo and Gabrielle;

it would be the moment Bambino comes to ring the dinner bell,

we stroll down stylistically late;

it would be the bird landing just by my feet,

beaded eyes staring into mine.

Italy cannot be forced.

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