Monday, December 2, 2013


She served the supper guests, Falsetto's Italiano working 
long hours on her feet, ice flagging the windows

a full house of wine-warmed faces, by midnight

she smelled like warm aromatic bread Bolognese 
seeping from her slim black wait-dress 

with rugged eyes, the chef thrust a plate her way eyed
her legs, watched her fluid spin unravel:

hips shoulders head flowed like an eddy-driven leaf

and when she spoke
a resonant voice, cheap, the bittersweet...when would she leave?
where would she go?

far away from the thick purl of blue ice, snow
perhaps a curl of green ocean, a day job

a place where she could undress in front of a sheer white curtain
that rises up on the breeze of a summer screen door. 

she would miss only this: his handsome language, a language

that sounded uppity and thin, uttered in front of the palate when she spoke it
but his "la bella linqua" rolled slow and low in the back of his throat

and strong
from the cave of his heart

she would go home with him one more night.

her long brown hair would fall all around him and
everything she ever wanted to purge, ambiguous seeds untold

would blow 
away in the cold 

and somewhere else on warm beach sands 

another lover would hold her sore
feet in his trembling hands 

and cradle them softly, like new-sprung birds.

*art: mixed media


  1. Monica, There is so often a catch in my throat as I read your poetry. Damn. And thank you.

  2. Oh, I so value your opinion...thank you from the bottom of my heart.

  3. So vivid . . . And so riddled with sensuality, both of the earthy and bittersweet kind.

    1. In a way, I miss the sensuality of younger years, though it's fed in a different sort of way as one ages...hmm, that's a thought to explore

  4. Wow - visceral. Curl of ocean! Inspired.

    1. curl and purl...I'm not a knitter, but it works!

  5. Yes, sensual, but also so many emotions boiling up. Beautiful painting and words.