Journal of Italian Translation

deep within their heart
the crack of bone
the shocked cry of pain.
Journal of Italian Translation
Broomflowers
Chrome yellow against green stems
in bunches on the reddish dirt
even-spaced rows
like a pattern on a quilt.
Is this new or have I forgotten
as I forgot the nightingale
singing in the trees below the wall—
what did I know then about nightingales—
the row of stones holding the tiles down
at the edge of the roof?
I’ve missed the Corpus Christi procession
the creweled bedspreads hanging
on the balcony rails, gaudy
against the old walls, the petals
twirling in the air like confetti
a carpet on the street
more dazzling than the gold monstrance
the white and gold canopy.
On the breeze a whiff of their scent,
delicate pleasing.
The sun is down now, the sky
turning indigo, but their yellow endures
on the slope below the parapet.
Inside
rough bouquets in earthenware jars.
And the little girl who picked them for me
is saying to her mother, sotto voce,
«She comes from America,
and she likes broomflowers?»