In 1353, Catherine
of Sienna—a child of five—gazes
across the church of St. Dominic to find standing before her, Jesus bathed in blood and light.
I.
II.
The priests warn: A Holy Serpent presigns the God of Faith.
And the prophets beseech: Eat this text.
Gulls
wheel now about to dive.
A Bank Swallow, close toward shore,
And a single ribbon
of clouds smudge the bottom corner
Of a half-moon sky.
Below, three villas: whitewashed
hard
against the sea. Italy: The Two
Days
Of the Dead.
Easter. It is
Sunday, 2003. I am thirty years old. I sit alone
in a busy
square drinking coffee and imagine
briefly a field at night and a ditch and the quiet
pass by
talking
low
and
laughing And the seagulls
again overhead
and a
breeze stirring (as if in August) what appears to
be a single sheet of rain
warning
across the square and is immediately
lost once more to the absolute blue of morning.
The girls smile. One stands
alone on the top
step of a café where—looking up—she had seconds before
Hesitated raised
both arms (bent from
the elbow) palms cupped as if to catch
the rainwater
down through her fingers and along her throat.
Nothing
more—
Her hand
(in rain)
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