" Other Cliches "
In Venice, eels and other scavengers
thrive. Canals poison ordinary fish,
Cats and their kittens roam the streets
in skinny shadows. Women hold babies
on their laps, wet Madonna eyes beg change.
I ignore them. My breasts
aren't milk wet. My bra chafes
where the scar heals.
You told me certain words were cliché.
I told you to give me a list.
"Moonlight, cricket, dreams. Love--
obviously." It would be easy to banish
them the way certain cities
have banished us. Venice may be one
of them. I haven't the courage to share
my secret. "Fate, pain, moss, winter."
I object to winter. "Funny," you say,
"here I thought, you'd object to love."
I began this poem, wanting to write
about Italy. About Artemisia
and her rape. When I made you gasp
with pleasure at the sight of my breasts
in moonlight, I knew nothing about
consequence. Now I hesitate over
bringing this poem to its conclusion.
I don't want to record your startled eyes
when you realize as you run your tongue
over their familiar landscape
that I have been cut.
That I might lose a breast.
"Fate is a cliché." I'll remind you.
"As is love" you'll reply.
In Venice, like last time, we'll eat
eel fried in batter. We'll watch lovers
arm in arm as we become less awkward
with one another.
You'll feed the remains
of our meal to the pigeons.
I'll watch strangers feeding
other scavengers.
© 2003 Laurie Byro
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