The Nun on the Bus, Florence
Black drape like a solid shadow,
as if the shade won’t slide from her. Veil,
abstracted hair lifting on the breeze.
Around us heels, furs, and scarves like swatches
of Las Vegas, a twitch of liner
on a pair of eyes, men in the cut of coats,
the usual, long-faced inspection
of each other’s clothes; mine unpressed, I creep
toward her. I like her sandals, try
to look at what she sees: flitting gardens,
cracked salmon, fitful ochre, moon-green
olive leaves, and the massings of overcast days
in the age-blown stone. I follow her
off the bus, and in black windblasts of her gown,
move a finger out where it might be
brushed by that day-lit, midnight tempest
descending to the piazza.
As she hurries toward San Marco and folds
into the heavy doors, I don’t move.
The boy beside me watches a beauty
going by. Suspended and free
of intent, he pauses before resuming his stride
negotiating the crowds that course
between the pleasant and the tragic.
A snatch of blue above a broken wall.
The being picked up and swiftly returned.
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Copyright © Nicole Cuddeback
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