Winter in Italy
I remember when we landed in Rome
and the road into the old city was grey.
Narrow streets, signs to art galleries
and ruins. An espresso we shared in a paper cup
near the Pantheon,
the pasta and wine we ate standing up.
The church we sat in after a long day.
I remember the streets of Florence,
walking to the Arno river, wandering at night,
eating a samosa.
The basilica of Santa Croce,
its tombs along the walls in the quiet dome.
We huddled close to listen
to a recording, one headphone
tangled between us,
saw the names of artists and poets,
knowing we too were already dead. I remember
chocolate gelato from a tub, the taste
of the one in a cone in Padua.
I loved the drizzle and clouds
in that northern city, how we walked
in history. I remember the pizza we ate,
twice, and that I ordered in Italian.
I remember visiting Venice, the train
on a causeway over a lagoon, the mist and gulls and ducks.
Following a tour group
to find our way through the maze of streets.
How we stopped by a narrow canal,
talked about the humid air, rooting its way
through old bricks. The damp corners.
I remember mum asking me to call her,
while I was in Italy. I remember that I didn’t.
Ion Corcos has been published in Grey Sparrow Journal, Clear Poetry, Communion, The High Window and other journals. Ion is a nature lover and a supporter of animal rights. He is currently travelling indefinitely with his partner, Lisa. Website: www.ioncorcos.wordpress.com Twitter: @IonCorcos