Roy White
I SEE IT FEELINGLY
Tuscania
This morning, with the smooth
warmth and gentle curve of skin
beneath my palms and the balls of my
fingers, I touch again
the recumbent domina in yesterday’s cathedral,
her bare navel the survivor of earthquakes, her coiled Roman ‘do
ancient the day she was made.
Montefiascone
As we climb past the soaring cathedral,
Chaotic bells overwhelm the hush and shuffle of mourners
Awaiting the guest of honor.
Now, in this older, lower church,
I sense the unvaulted roof in
The solid echo of my tapping stick
And in her low voice as she leads me to feel
The round coldness of ancient pitted marble, the flat coldness of the
Iron brace.
Acquarossa
Sound and scent: water—
fall. A bright arc pierces my
Portable darkness.
La Quercia
In the Spar car park
The dry voice of Francis, with its softened Spanish obstruents,
Speaks of the washing of feet, il gesto di uno schiavo,
And calls on us to be each other’s servants.
How strange to be one of the chosen, to have your feet
bathed by the elderly Argentine stranger.
I think of the crowded train, the three silent
Men pretending not to understand
my wife’s plea that they let me get to the empty window seat.
How strange to find yourself a moral test for strangers.
As Francis gets to work, looking each washee in the eye,
My people return with the groceries for the dinner
That we will make and eat together.
Roy White lives in Saint Paul with his lovely wife and handsome dog.
He blogs at lippenheimer.wordpress.com ;
his essay, "When I Make My Road Trip Movie," appears in the Fall 2014 issue of _Eclectica_.
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