Poetry
Unpublished Writings of Marge Sherwood
free to run
away into the countryside
away into the depths of
the city.
free to laugh
at extraordinary life
at silly boys who think
they’re men.
free to write
about life in journals
about truly living outside
home walls.
free to live
in a house by myself
in peace with decisions I make
for myself.
"Free"
Maybe you’re driving that old Alfa Romeo down the Piazza San Lorenzo
Stopped at a crosswalk in downtown Florence
Maybe you met with the Greenleaf attorney for coffee last week at Francesco’s café
Discussing the terms of your family’s life insurance
Maybe you found a woman with a beautiful name like Valentina or Alessandra
Listening intently for the purr of her accent
Maybe you spent the afternoon at the Tournabuoni marketplace
Husting vendors for a cheap leather jacket
Maybe you rented the most expensive yacht in Italy’s arsenal
Sailing back to the States on daddy’s dime
Maybe you’re sitting on the balcony of some obscure Parisian motel
Praying for guidance from the divine
Maybe you’re climbing the steps of some ancient Greek ruins in Athens
Admiring the sunset from atop the Acropolis
Maybe you fell like Caesar with a muffled “et tu Brute”
Floating back to the city and friends that you miss
Maybe I sleep on the left side of my California king mattress in Mongibello
Hoping someday you’ll appear on the right
Maybe I cook breakfast for two with eggs over easy
Thinking you may ride in on a ray of sunlight
Maybe I spend the winters strolling by the villages of the Amalfi Coast
Listening to nothing but the sound of crashing waves
Maybe I travel east to Bangkok and Morocco for Christmas and Easter
Eating nothing but couscous all day
Maybe I started a family of my own with a dark Italian statue of a man
Drowning out all memories of you
Maybe I’m writing a novel at Giovanni’s bistro in Northeastern Milan
Publishing manuscripts too good to be true
Maybe I’m dying.
Maybe I’m not.
Maybe I’m lying.
Maybe I’m not.
"Maybe"
Bruneschelli’s Santa Maria del Fiore
Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel ceiling
Botticelli’s Birth of Venus
Raphael’s School of Athens
Da Vinci’s Last Supper
Titian’s Assumption of the Virgin
Caravaggio’s Calling of St. Matthew
Giorgione’s The Tempest
Ghiberti’s Gates of Paradise
Donatello’s David
Giotto’s Ognissanti Madonna
Masaccio’s Holy Trinity
Tintoretto’s Miracle of the Slave
Duccio’s Maesta
Lorenzo’s Ecstasy of Saint Teresa
Dickie Greenleaf
"Italian Artwork"
I moved out of oppression into
oppression.
Expectations of obedience turned into
pressures of
listening to his dreams (not mine)
defending him relentlessly
blind loyalty
Expectations of loveliness blend into
pressures of
the perfect flick of eyeliner
dresses that force an hourglass
looking perfect, always
Expectations of marriage melted into
pressures of
dinner on the table
wondering where he is
wondering what this is
I moved out of oppression into
oppression.
"Contrived"
Where in the world is Dickie Greenleaf?
Rome, Paris, Venice?
I’d scour every country on this blessed map for a look.
Look at me when I’m talking to you.
You just left without so much as a postcard.
Posthaste, postimpact, postmortem.
More than any sane woman can take.
Take me for a ride across Europe in that little off-road motorbike you regret buying.
Regret, please spare me.
Me—something you obviously didn’t consider before fleeing the country.
Country roads unwind for miles.
Miles and miles and miles and miles and miles and
Miles of highway to search for you.
You son of a gun.
Gunned down, perhaps? On the Italian peninsula.
Or maybe held hostage by an ancestor of Al Capone.
Stabbed by a mob boss in Naples or drowned in the Mediterranean Sea.
See why I have nightmares?
Nights spent in solitary confinement because of your stubborn free will.
Will you ever stop being so selfish?
Self-love.
Self-hate.
It’s all the same when your self up and leaves.
"Dissolution of Self"
"Trace"
They always say
“gone without a trace”
but all I see are lines
that lead to you.
I could trace every road
walking in the opposite
direction and still find myself
right where I was.
See, you left but all I see is
you.