The words he penned outlive the tomb of time—
“We look about for what we find inside.”
A clerk in Clement’s court, Petrarch rhymed
on living angels. He and Clement turned the tide
from out to in—from god to man—from saint
to beast. “I am a sinner among sinners”, Clement boasted
as he baited the white bear in his menagerie. Taint
of florins, stench of power, taste of roasted
gilded capon, embrace of whore—this pope
indulged, sold indulgences—then saved
Jews, fed the starving, to the plague-stricken gave hope.
He and Petrarch so loved the world they braved
hell to tear the dark tapestry that Rome
had woven, making instead a human poem.
Lucrezia stood hooded in the corner, watching the display in front of her in disgust as the monk shook his fist and shouted for all the frenzied crowd to hear. He threw a book on the flames. The crowd roared as the flames devoured it- dancing and flickering as they reflected off his bald head. The smoke billowed around him and to Lucrezia he had the look of a crazed demon who just crawled his way out of the pits of hell.
Lucrezia did not say a word as she hid in the shadows watching the mounting spectacle. She was not completely sure why she felt she must come and witness this, but once the whispers had reached her ears, she could not keep herself away. The palazzo she knew so well had been invaded by Savaranola’s bloodthirsty Piagnoni, its treasures stripped and thrown haphazardly in carts and transported to the Piazza della Signora, where they would await a smouldering execution for offenses to the propriety of the self-proclaimed moral compass of Florence.
The palazzo’s owners had long since abandoned the city, fled to the safety of the surrounding hills, where they would await the inevitable change of tide. Life and power in Florence was never stable, and for any of the powerful families to maintain a foothold in the erratic political machine that was Florence, they must be prepared for any eventuality. Lucrezia understood all too well their desire to survive. She was smart, cunning, charming, and beautiful- but perhaps most importantly- she never forgot her place. Having been born to the streets of Florence, she understood hunger and sickness and she knew that she would endure anything to keep those wolves at bay.
For two years she had been brought into the palazzo to please the elder son of a wealthy merchant. He was smitten with her and as long as he mounted his ugly wife every ten months (or thereabouts) to produce another heir, his father paid for his every whim. He was not her worst customer. He was quick, not too rough, and always fell asleep straight after, leaving Lucrezia waiting for him to either wake up for more or summon someone to remove her. It was in these respites that she discovered the one thing that had ever made her question her existence- to feel like there was something more to this life than surviving in the highest degree of comfort one could manage. In the elder son’s room there was a painting. The first time she saw it she stopped moving and was, for a brief moment, lifted out of her body. A harsh tug on her arm brought her back to reality, and as she stumbled to keep up with her escort, she noticed the hairs standing up on her arms, felt for the first time a pleasurable tremble run through her hardened soul.
From that moment, she spent every moment looking forward to her next summons to the palazzo. She could hardly wait for her occasional lover to be done with her, so she could sit and look at the entrancing scene before her – its power over her so strong- she ceased to hear the loud snoring of her paramour, to feel the most recent bruises he had left on her delicate skin. Sometimes she would be drawn to the bathing nymphs, other times it was the goat man dancing in a small thicket of trees. Every so often she found herself looking so deep into the painted forms on the canvas that she ceased to remember they were there, so transfixed was she by the vivid colours she had never seen before in the real world. Mostly though, she gazed at the river, so lifelike she could convince herself it was moving. She imagined herself on a little boat sailing down the river to ‘Away-‘ the name she had given to the place she would one day go. Never having been out of the walls of Florence, she did not know about anything that may lie beyond the city walls, but one day she would have enough money to seek it out. For all she knew, the goat man would be there- and they would dance through the woods barefoot, occasionally dipping their toes in the crystal-clear river.
She never asked the elder son about the painting, for this would not have been acceptable. As a woman, and one of the city’s meretrice, discussions of this nature (and generally discussions of any nature) were out of bounds- and so Lucrezia never knew the name nor the painter of the masterpiece that had put a spark of light in her soul.
Savaranola lifted the painting high above his head- displaying it as the crowd of sheep baa’d their disapproval. Singular cries of ‘burn it’ came from the crowd. A few more chimed in until the mob built enough momentum to reach a fever pitch of unity… ‘BURN IT!’ Savaranola smiled his demoniac grin and triumphantly threw the canvas onto the bonfire. The multitude exploded into deranged cheers and Lucrezia turned away, imagining the river nymphs screaming in agony as the once peaceful river transformed into a torrent of flames. A single tear trickled down a hardened face that had never before allowed the touch of salt water to kiss its cheek.
Random renditions,
of complex water jets,
height,
duration,
erupting in
symphonic patterns,
from a street level fountain
into the penetrating heat
of the town square.
Smiling children taken
by unpredictable rhythms
of ever changing streams
rush through a gap
in the broken curtain of water,
shoulders drawn,
arms lifted,
smiles dissolving into laughter–
Repeat, then repeat,
wet clothes pasted to skin.
Fewer more prudent adults,
beckoned
by the soul of the fountain,
plan their course
between the chords
of a liquid melody.
Gleefully they dart through
with measured precision,
just once, maybe twice,
helpless to outsmart the dance,
unwilling to soak themselves
before enchanted onlookers.
Unconcerned,
this intricate orchestra
continues bursting skyward.
Then I hear the first clicks of the shutter,
aperture opens and closes,
like a gaping mouth feeding on my flesh.
I unfurl myself and stretch my body
along the hardwood floor,
smacking my skin like icy marble,
my only wardrobe a royal coat of fine dust
draped over me to keep me warm.
My body starts to move and
I no longer inhabit my bones.
They move on their own,
turning and twisting me
into different shapes.
My body a foreign object.
My jaw quivers and I can’t stop moving
otherwise I will freeze.
I must keep moving.
I must keep moving.
I watch myself in the mirror,
glowing in its gilded frame,
cracked and flecked with gold,
like how I feel inside, sometimes.
She crouches near me,
her camera pointing at the mirror,
and me, her subject.
In her eyes, the question that she won’t ask.
After all, it’s not every day
I ask this of a stranger,
nor a friend,
acquaintance is too strong a word.
Is there a word for someone you meet once
and never see again?
Two strangers who crossed paths
and never spoke again.
Until tonight.
My body feels itself
for the first time,
I don’t think about the camera,
I barely think about her presence,
because something is happening,
I’m not sure what, but I feel my body,
feel the goosebumps, feel the hardwood floor,
feel my softness, feel the space of my surrender.
The rain beats down an army on the roof,
washes away the spores of self-doubt and ridicule
that have congealed imaginary spheres inside of me,
liberating the alleys and the creeks of my veins
The sliding glass doors look out into obscurity,
reflecting the two women.
I see myself in the gilded mirror,
my curls sprawled on the floor,
my body a sumptuous feast.
I have never seen myself like this before.
My face looks different, the angles sharper,
the eyes brighter, two moons in a bruised sky.
Am I that creature, eyes glowing,
peeking back at me through the dark?
The curtain of clouds is lifting
on the stage of the evening sky.
The stars are weary,
cast in their unchanging roles
night after night until time itself ends .
Yet, without applause or bouquets of flowers,
the constellations play out their cosmic tragedy,
chasing around and around the nighttime set
like riders on a slow-spinning carousel,
but never catching the object of their pursuit.
Aquarius, Capricorn,
Virgo, Gemini and Orion
(accompanied by a supporting cast of rams,
scorpions, fish, bulls and crabs),
perform their eternal dance
while we watch in awe.
I resemble you
Or We resemble us!
Worlds apart and together souls
Call upon to protest
And meet
Out of the meek crowd of everyday chores;
Here I shout;
There you stand.
Here I laugh;
There you gaze.
I move and you pass;
I laugh and you surpass
A spirit of Zeel around
The bones and
Look into me
Through your wide purple eyes;
And I behold
You-
Us-
The doppelgangers
Searching for each other throughout the time
On earth
And once
May be once- I know
We will collide and
On that day
I will look into your bright purple eyes.
Look for seedlings to poke and rise within the week.
Track two full moons and there will be blooms.
Look! They’re bursting open—one flower, one stem.
Know this: these beauties are deer-resistant sun lovers.
Water them a little (an inch they say) every week.
Wait for butterflies to land and hummers to hover.
Apply fertilizer as needed.
Beware: confident and colorful, Zinnias die out with the first frost.
A Mockingbird trills ree-ree-ree-swoo, ree-ree-ree-swoo, over and over again. Bright yellow mustard flowers flank the weedy plot of dirt where, seven years ago, a ravenous gopher ate through the middle of three out of four newly planted Buddleia—Butterfly bushes. Weeds abound. Unlike marriage, their success relies—
Weedy mental meandering is what I do when endings and beginnings are wedged-up like incompatible vegetables planted too close together; cabbage and strawberries, for example; or tomatoes next to bush beans. But while avoiding vegetable catastrophes only requires a bit of research, avoiding personal catastrophes is less clear-cut, by far. One only has to look to Shakespeare for proof.
In junior high, I accidentally played Juliet. Ms. Anderson, the drama teacher, saw something in me and claimed I’d be perfect for the role. Me? I thought, five seconds before my ego primed my lips with a commitment. Each night, under cover of darkness, I’d earnestly rehearse my lines in the back garden:
Deny thy father and refuse thy name/Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love/And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.
Weeks later I’d plunge Romeo’s dagger through two layers of chiffon, fake blood exploding across my abdomen, and collapse dead on the stage.
What wasn’t clear to the eighth-grade me, anything related to my feminist renaissance to-come, is now as transparent as air. Juliet should never have offered to give up her name. After abandoning my maiden name four times, as if getting married was akin to existing in a self-induced coma, it took Donald Trump becoming America’s 45th president to wake me. In an instant, every flimsy belief I’d held became sturdy inspiration for deep internal change. Raised by strong women and nearly absent—either physically or emotionally—men, I can only scream to myself: What took you so (52 years) long? Doesn’t matter, really. A maiden name isn’t difficult to reclaim. A dead marriage is.
I read recently that in shade, Zinnias produce fewer flowers on smaller plants. Shade is a problem for them, just as it has always been for women who stand in the shadow of a man—we can’t grow properly there.
Zinnias were discovered in the 1800s, by Johann Gottfried Zinn, a German botanist, and have become a symbol of endurance. I’m envisioning the Zinnia’s floral antecedents through the eyes of budding botanist Alma, from Elizabeth Gilbert’s The Signature of All Things. I’m belly-to-the-dirt, clothing of the day notwithstanding, investigating flora and fauna, calculating exactly how our world first began to grow. I’m maintaining a detailed notebook of lichen, replete with illustrations, and envisioning what our world might, based on these micro-investigations, become. But a botanist also understands that our existence predates its discovery, that something always came first.
The feminist me predates my 2016 discovery of her. I see her as an independent five year-old pulling up patches of grass just to peer into the teeming world below. I see her in a lifelong refusal to embrace religious discrimination against the gays, and in my wonky determination to keep trying to get love right even after repeated failures.
Some people don’t like the word feminist much. It’s as misunderstood and poorly labeled as “weeds” that are just flowers that want to grow, unobstructed.
An ending, I understand, is a synonym for a beginning, which is a synonym for someone who wants to…
I’ve stared out of the window for the past three months. Some days I haven’t been able to see past the streaks of rain that stain the window like dried tears on cheeks. Other days, I’ve cradled my morning coffee and watched as green turns to brown, as the nights consume the days, and as the Sun weakens.
Nothing grows without the Sun. Our garden has become a graveyard. From my window I can see grey slabs leading to an infertile bed of sandy brown dirt. The ferns tendrils curl into the ground, no longer thick and lush. The olive tree, a wedding present, stands lifeless, propped up by soil and stones. The lavender that once attracted bees and butterflies is crisp and grey.
Amber evenings spent in the garden, enveloped in the perfume of jasmine, rosemary and lavender, are only memories.
Some days my gaze rests on the windmill that juts incongruously out of the dirt. A child’s whirly windmill. Its rainbow rosettes poke up above the brittle twigs of abandoned plants. It was supposed to bring joy and life. A splash of colour and a whirl of movement. But its faded petals remind me of a rundown seafront in winter and bring me only sadness. They, like I, seem to have succumbed to the muted, washed-out skies. It’s not clear whether it is us that have faded quietly, imperceptibly into the grey, or if the grey has seeped into us, draining our souls of colour.
I’ve stared out of the window for the past three months, as winter pervaded and overwhelmed our home. I’ve been so focused on what’s not there, I’ve been blind to the life that’s struggled on in the peripheries.
But today the Sun’s rays light up the garden and reach towards me through the window. The warmth can just about be felt on my skin. Tiny hairs prick up on my pale arms. Today I am able to see through the dirt-streaked window. The dawn glow shows me the rosemary bush that has stood stoically throughout the winter months. Through the glass, I can almost feel the softness of the lamb’s ear that has appeared without me noticing: the Sun transforms its grey leaves into silvery, soft fronds. Today I want to smell the rosemary, I want to feel the lamb’s ear.
Today, I go outside. The air is no longer frigid and I shed the heavy layers that I’ve grown accustomed to wearing. Green buds have appeared on the olive tree, a cluster of daffodils explode brightly from the planter of bulbs that I’d forgotten about. The cricket pitch nearby comes to life with the thrum of a lawnmower and the scent of freshly cut grass. The thwack of ball on bat as the players come out of hibernation signals the start of a new season. Of hope and anticipation.
I notice the dirt is no longer barren. Tender green shoots poke out defiantly: their fragility makes them seem even stronger. They’ve been waiting patiently for this moment. Having survived the long, dark months of winter, they’re ready to show themselves. Life even pushes up through the cracks in the grey slabs.
The warm spring air carries candyfloss blossom from next door’s tree and scatters it like confetti across our garden, celebrating the life that has laid dormant, but not dead.
The windmill is still faded but it spins and whirls in the shower of blossom.
A discarded painting
left in the alley
long enough for no one to notice
people stepping in disremembrance
taking a shortcut and tossing garbage
despite the incongruous colors
melding shapes within and beyond the frame
Harsh drenching of an early spring rain
the shades and hues on the canvas
bleed themselves onto the dilapidated street
a solitary figure throws shadows
across the expanse of the alleyway
catches an ephemeral vantage amidst the cracks
to see what no one is seeing