I think of that kinky over
the-top knee boot and those
tortuous streets, enigmatic
as the earthy ochre of Siena
blends blood with the blessed
Virgins simple black and white
decadence as decisive as the time
cords tied my wrists and you
covered my eyes leaving
invisible preoccupations
reproducing themselves
the way hands, feet or brows
express ecstatic suffering
disguised as some sort of razor
sharp thrill. It hasn't always
been this way. If I could see
you again, I'd leave
bruises pulped into stone
softened by the first time
we met, when we thought
we were in Rome.
Copyright © Alison Eastley, 2003. All Rights Reserved.