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Vulcan

A destructive fire god becomes

the patron of smiths and craftsmen;

this is how gods are tamed.

The aegis is my shield against humanity

and being human.

We arrive at the village for our honeymoon and see pictures

of bearded men surrounded by flames and castle walls.

We think, is this an opera, a play?

That night we discover it's not a play,

it's a blacksmith's exposition.

Blacksmiths from every village in the region

gather in competition, stripped naked,

seeing who can hammer loudest and longest outside our window.

Burning iron pounded in rhythm, the rhythm

of muscle. Of backs. Endurance.

The next day we go to see what they produced

in one night while we lay together:

fences, gates.

My world is iron.

We're in the Iron Age and everything is strong.

Everything is a metal bedstead and an iron chandelier above it.

Sex is a grille, a gate, a screen.

Love is a door, a fence, a series of studs that keep a wall together.

Sex is a set of iron tracks that carry freight.

Love is the latch that bolts an entrance.

Sex is a blacksmith's competition.

Love is a naked blacksmith.

END

Corpus Christi

It was Corpus Christi, 41 days

after the rising of Jesus, but nothing

in me rose or bloomed or stirred.

I took a bath in the morning;

church bells and birds in my tower.

I did not know the people of the town

collected flower petals

arranging them on the streets

in yellow, pink and green trompe l'oeuil.

The little boy who laughed

at me two weeks ago because I couldn't speak 

Italian appeared in a white shirt

and white shorts to watch the procession,

ready to trample

the petals pink and yellow and green.

Thereafter I followed the little boys

of the town.  I held lollipops

in my fist but did not give them away. 

I followed them on their bicycles

To the courtyards where they played

and they stared back at me.

I feel them leaning on the door

Of the public phone booth and whispering.

Repeating my phrases to each other.

When I open the door, they fall back

Comedians in a silent film.

They have processions for days like these.

© All Copyright, Zoe Francesca.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.