prego--

street scene in front of my rome hotel..the restaurant was close by..

.

it’s a sidestreet place, no tourists,
a little group of old, italian men, the only guests
checked table cloth, la notte sinks
on Rome and i–

order pizza, un bicchiere di vino,
rosso, secco// & a steady pul-

siNg rest-day’s heat creeps
from the asphalt up my legs,
under my black dress, lingers–

“parli italiano?” sepia teethed &
wrinkled smile, across the room,

i smile back, “no–” “germane?
o inglese?” “si” –
the chef joins from the kitchen,
sweat pearls on his forehead, apron twined
around his hips, we’re

on a stage, playing, recitare,
linguaggio mimico, &

later, buried in the pages of my book,
rinsed soft by una lingua whose
pronunciation makes my name sound
like a goddess, and she is, actually
hidden in it —dia,

moth formations circle in a tranquil dance
around the street lamp, “buena notte”

stepping out into the night,
il mondo, drunk with heat, spins slowly–
backward, forward– stops.

& i roll up, into a perfect ball,
along her sinuous axis

.

we’re writing poetry in a language that is not our own in the pub today..actually, i do this all the time as my mother tongue is german…though…thought i’m going for italian for the prompt…flashback to Rome..sigh..

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