Angel in a Wooden Bra / Page 19 of 20


	homesick in the ruins of Rome it is raining in Rome. a wind voiced torrent with purple white sheets of lightening over the green bronze cathedral domes. no doubt revenge for my remarks before the altars of churches and the sainted bone fragments kept in holy glass jars in blessed shrines. and for keeping count -- St. George, apparently, had at least 5 forearms and 3 right hands. Dean and I are standing with wet feet, wet pants, water running down our necks, at the foot of the Roman forum on the crest of a stone stair. me holding the umbrella, while Dean reads the guide book which will explain to us the scattered marble ruins. the curia where senators met, the stone where Julius Caesar's body was burned and is now covered with bouquets of cut roses. there, the 3 remaining columns from the temple of the vestal virgins. the paper guide book dissolves in the rain. and in a particularly ferocious cluster of lightening a 7 year old blond girl comes up behind me and takes my hand, her fingers sticky and warm as if she's been sucking them. Dean and I have never had children and now I'm too old. this one belongs to someone else and in a moment she will realize that. she will speak to me in German, a language I don't know. I miss my smug sense of comprehension when words are spoken. I miss my closet of dry shoes.

homesick in the ruins of Rome