I.

At Piazza Lovatelli I watch kids steal scorched

hubcaps, palms slick with molten Vespa chrome

as August meanders down the filthy Tiber. Impossible

to sleep since Marxists murdered Moro, his body folded

in the trunk of a beat-up Renault. I wear my Nikon

loaded like an AR-70, desires unclear beyond survival

hot water, 35mm film. Enclosed are Polaroids, back arched

my forehead cropped. I am a riot, an opera, a menace -

II.

Sandro says art that matters is armed and naked

on the streets. Give me a black glove, a white feather

from an angel’s wing. Stilettos of red-lipped women

live in the scaffold of my spine. Neighbors serenade us

with fragrant curses. I haven’t heard from you in weeks.

Forget about me and I’ll fly back to New York, rifle

through your garbage, make a scene in front of the super.

Tell Mama I found panna cotta, but it won’t keep -

III.

You are capable of loving and distorting love, kicking

away the chair beneath me. I threw my yellow sandal

from the window of Sandro’s moving car, curious if

he’d turn back or watch it cook on asphalt, sunny-side

up. I see you in alley shadows, smell your just-washed

hair in the looming pines. I lack courage but some days

it’s crawling all over me with bare feet and beautiful toes -

Better to leave the party first, craving

the drama of an open window, solitude

of a blank page. Spaniels at my heel, we stomp

up the overgrown path, smothering the promise

of June. I ignore peals of laughter from the patio

dodge the murky pond where I drowned

childhood playthings, stagnant water reflects

all I won’t miss. Father’s disapproval, thinly

veiled in a cigar fog of billiards & single malt.

Mother’s quivering ostrich feathers mocking

me with that hateful nickname. My brothers’ filthy

fingers staining sketchbooks with redcurrants

& equations. I scuff sensible shoes against drains

clogged with expectations, clasp my No 2 pencil.

This is the real me - not Prim but proud. Intrepid

sprinter, slowing at the turnstile to curse unforgiving

brogues. Slamming the clumsy gate to stride through

neighboring brambles, refusing to bide time in England’s

yellow kitchens, dreaming of great love affairs, secret

betrayals. Fearsome warrior in jodhpurs & waistcoat

my brown hair unkempt, taming green parakeets atop

marble pergolas, mounting thoroughbreds with celestial

manes. I listen for hyenas chattering in French. By autumn

I’ll prove the party wrong. The spaniels howl as I unlace my shoes.

I.

Funny you should mention the flour. I swept it from the sidewalk

after the Pillsbury truck hit the hydrant on South Main, the block

dusted like a Bavarian village, Roberto shouting up from the bakery

put your damn shoes on & stop day-dreaming! He gave me a broom

& dregs of cold coffee. Later I run my finger through filthy flour

lick the tarmac, flecked with egg whites & milk. Imagine the cake

I’ll make if you write me back - vanilla buttercream, frosted golden

with strands of my hair. Yes, I am alive on this February morning

holding the big hands of the world. I’ll leave the window open

in case you write -

II.

Hands above the stove flame for warmth, I load sticky film

check the floor for knives. I think it’s Wednesday. My body

seethes inside the skirting board. I press glass against my thighs

brush cobwebs from my ribcage, arrange work boots, treads

smudge hungrily against my torso. Half-finished tuna sandwich

the air pale & thin. My camera captures a mousy girl, hair

disheveled & cruel, barely alive.  I’m at my worst again.

Dad stares at my clavicle, squeezes limes in my soda, whispering

See how light works?  Cannot keep his eyes from the frame

such a long exposure -

III.

In my dream your skin maps routes to the Moshassuck River

clotheslines cajole in an Easter breeze. I know you still love her.

Outrunning  grief over the slope of Smith Hill, I lean toward

the camera while you hesitate, my red shirt unbuttoned. Grip

the tripod, you watch me bare teeth, my body bulletproof.

Before you left I reapplied lipstick, mauve fingers smearing

sky. Betrayal in your gait, my cleverness disappearing

at the summit with clouds that plunder then vanish -