The lemon trees tilt toward the sea, their fruit split open
as if the salt wind could sweeten them. Some mornings
the hills step closer, the terraces folding in so she can smell
the rosemary threaded through their stonework.
The sea has been singing all morning, throwing up
flashes of anchovy scales, silver and gone
before the gulls can see them. The same fish, she swears,
have been circling here for a hundred years.
The alley is a vein through the city, walls bleeding bougainvillea.
Carta di sangue—though yesterday they were the color of milk.
The street narrows until it’s only a skirt brushing stone,
gone in an instant, god knows how long.
There she is, dumping her rod into a fountain. It once belonged,
she says, to the fisherman who taught her how to read the wind
and lose her will. She knows she shouldn’t be splashing, does it
anyway.
Sposa bagnata, sposa fortunata. The aisle is waiting, the veil torn like
a wave.
Weaving oleander into her hair, her steps spiral upward
into the crown of an olive tree, her favorite spot.
Up here, the sea is the color of kitchen tiles. Hurry up!
Do you hear the bells ringing? You don’t want to be late
for school. On your bike over glass beads
licked clean by the ocean, find your way
back home. Look for the blue door, let her
rock you to sleep in her apron.
Salt air slips through the window to nowhere.
The rail of a bed a mirror for paperwhite hands
freckled by life. There’s no point to change the sheets,
they say. I just hope the ocean tucks you in tonight.
