Arlene Ang
lives in Spinea, Italy. Her poetry has appeared Forklift Ohio, In Posse Review, Six Little Things, Siren and 21 Stars Review. She received the 2006 Frogmore Poetry Prize (UK) and serves as a poetry editor for The Pedestal Magazine and Press 1. More of her work can be viewed at Leafscape. —Back to Orsorum Contents— |
Open House Sonnenizio on a line from JarmanModern and made to last, at least in theory,the mermaid sculpture in the garden was missing an arm. The young couple, linking theirs, made a path through the maidenhair ferns by the yellow gate. The granite paving made their steps tap like nails against a windowpane. What made them pause before the made-in-china wind chimes and smile—if not love? Her maiden aunt would’ve made a fuss about the peeling paint and wild wild west hedges, would’ve been dismayed by the slate chippings that made the foliage appear like factory-made defects. The realtor, his hair done in pomade, showed them around. The rum in his breath made them privy to wisdom.
Col San Martino, Late WinterThis is where the small car chugsto a stop. Rust erodes red paint, the sheen swept away by rain. Sun—a crushed orange—bleeds through afternoon mist. 45 miles away, he is writing a novel on snow crystals; your sons have his eyes. From this hillside, the vineyards sprawl like cemeteries, grape stalks crucified on white pales. Distance is crossed in dreams: he is never there. Like turtles, children grow out of their house. Did you really believe you came for the Prosecco? This is the place where an old woman watches from her window. Silence quivers your hands on the wheel. The journey is over. You empty your pockets on the front seat: old coins, a bracelet, fridge notes, his birthstone. There is no burden like unwanted things.
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