Mary Jane Ryals Tallahassee (Michael Trammell)
Florence after Lockdown, 2021 --for Greg, Jonathan and Michael On the bones of my ears I hear chatter all day and all night, the chatter of Saturday city-- the bust-out from lockdown for months the echo off Santa Croce piazza of dog bark of horse clip-clop, of dishes clattering, church bells clanging, the double-door slam of palacio entrada. In the alleys song of North Africans calling to god, that release of pain. Our neighbors who live here say during Covid Firenze was so quiet that the foxes and porcupines walked the abandoned city streets. On Sunday in the Duomo, the pipe organ blasts bass, vibrates through us like lions, the priest’s voice a rasping tenor, tender surprise. The solo by the alto reminds my ears of water and wavy glass in a beach house at sunrise. Where are you? Where is your sound when you are thinking? For me, the purple flowers in pots at Le Vespe Ristorante sing the soprano of the choir woman-- slow vibrato rising as incense up and up. These old choir songs take me to Appalachian Americana songs 700 years later, only with guitars and banjos, their major and minor weaving like Penelope’s silk gowns. This wistful prayer, yes that same release of pain. |
SoFloPoJo
SoFloPoJo - South Florida Poetry Journal & Witchery, the place for Epoems Copyright © 2016-2025