Original Prompt 1, Week 2

“Though we vacationed in a castle, though I/ rode you hard one morning to the hum/ of bees that buggered lavender, and later/ we shared gelato by a spotlit dome/ where pigeons looped like coins from a parade--/ we weren’t transported back to newlyweds.”

from Beth Ann Fennelly, “Souvenir”

Five years, I return because I tossed glint to the Trevi and you are with me because of the glint circling your finger. As the train spoils the track into Spoleto, I look for the aqueduct, wanting to trace Montelucco on the window for you, remind you of the trees spiraling to amethyst, sun already pooling in the lower city, but I can’t find it, my head must have gotten turned around, for a second, I imagine, somehow, San Francesco’s miniature sanctuary has dissolved, honey in the heat. Of course, once we check into the Hotel, flushing the toilet for the delicacy of seeing water move anywhere but in the fountains in this town, we set out across the cobblestones, the terracotta roofs lowering as we climb tier to tier, and I remember. A million picolo pausi for the view of the maze below or to let the salt dry on the back of our necks, and finally the picolo miracolo. Silent, we palm each other’s hands through the sacred forest, winding around our heads, lay a blanket to the terra firm with Francesco’s beaten feet, eat our prosciutto, drink our wine, drift almost weightless to the guardrail, look out. What is this landscape without longing for the old wolf whose tapestry of fur has turned threadbare, her eyes calcified, milk turned to marble? What is this landscape with you, without the longing for you?