This Blue : Poems (9781466875074) by Maureen N. McLane

GENOA
    The merchant republics are done
    as is the nun
    who forbade us aged five to say
    we were done.
    The oven door opened
    in her mime
    the door to the oven
    where we were thoroughly roasted
    and done.
    If you are done
    that means I can stick
    a fork in you. You
    she corrected
    are finished.
    Finished
    with all that some days
    it seems a dream
    the long boredom
    in the schoolroom
    workbook assignments
    rushed through straining
    toward what weird
    consummation?
    Sister Lucretia—
    she was another one
    terrifying the children who braved
    the zenana of nuns
    pledged to Christ and torture
    of the wayward souls who ventured
    into the sanctum sanctorum
    the private apartment of six nuns
    for a weekly piano lesson.
    Bach had twenty children
    she declared. Her heart was given
    to a Texan—Van Cliburn.
    A wimpled nun
    one of the last
    thus to dress among the remaining Franciscan
    sisters. Excess
    daughters in immigrant families
    ready to give some
    aid and comfort to the Lord
    or the local monsignor—
    a special vocation—
    were they rotting away
    in their habits, were they
    the transfigured ones?
    I wanted once
    to become one.
    Those days are done
    and I am almost done
    almost historical as a usuried ship
    heading west and more west
    to find treasures
    for kings. Look in thy heart
    it is a treasury
    it was said
    Mary said.
    She was another one.
    Even now at the Brignole station
    we see flocks of nuns
    rope-belted, a crucifix flying in wind.
    A veiled woman
    might become another woman
    under a different sun.
    Even here the sisters
    have become Indian, Ethiopian,
    no extra Italian
    daughters to pay the godly sum
    of glorious renunciation.
    The Turks are threatening Christendom
    in old chronicles
    and today’s European bulletin.
    Beware of falling under the thumb
    of Islam.
    It will never be finished
    said the Caliph
    to the Sultan.
    It is almost done
    this meal where I stick
    a fork in tomatoed squid stew
    called burrida its Arabic origins
    brining my tongue.
    I stick a fork in an animal
    fork in a soul
    and I eat and I eat
    until kingdom come.

SAN FRUTTUOSO GLOBAL
    The merchant republics are done.
    The Cristo degli Abissi beseeches the sea
    from seventeen meters below.
    He will never again see the sun.
    They sank him in 1954.
    The Strada Nuova was old.
    Genoa devoured the world, Braudel said.
    Columbus killed Taínos for gold.
    It’s good not to be dead
    â€”a thing one wouldn’t have said
    those days the islanders fled
    to the hills escaping Spaniards
    their helmeted heads
    and fists clasped round handles
    of pikes and swords for striking
    off every savage hand
    empty of glinting metal—
    they knew they knew
    where gold could be found
    and they knew their lord
    a forgiving lord
    who watched indifferent
    as they ran them to ground

DRINK WITH MOUNTAIN, REMEMBERED, ANDALUCÍAN
    The rosé from Spain
    followed us west
    as if hot on the scent
    of tomato—
    O brave New World
    your fruits have gone incognito!
    A rosé’s a rosé’s a rosé
    with love apples.
    You are moving west
    beyond the Chinese coast
    to the interior
    of Inner Mongolia. A threatened
    horse rides again
    the steppes unburdening
    themselves below revived hooves.
    The time of the emperor
    is nigh. No inquisition
    will be able to check
    the future. Your local
    grapes are delicious
    picked off the vine
    or bottled, thus.
    This is the interval
    between eras of fathers,
    dictators fallen, the marble
    fists crushed and not crushing.
    But the future, its empress,
    who can say what beast
    she’ll ride to meet us?
    Raise a glass, comrades—
    all you who refuse
    to forget the civil war.

INSCRIPTION
    Not far
    from the Chandrabar
    and the Nervi Belvedere
    I drink this beer
    under an awning
    on the Passeggiata
    Anita Garibaldi
    a kayak flotilla
    choreographed quintet
    heading east and easter
    the French Alps outlined
    in a faint blue to our west
    My t-shirt’s plain
    white & cheap
    an affront to the