For today’s challenge I used a postcard reproduction of Filadelfo Simi’s The Flowers of Capri, of which I talked a little here.
She lurks at the grassroots,
unholy like a suicide –
who is she? why is there no ribbon
bearing her name, no marble dog
laid at her feet? And yet, undoubtedly,
the hills heave with her breasts
and the earth cannot darken
the sorrow of her eyes.
She looks on at all the “might-have-been”s,
knows she is no mother,
no sister, no wife, and she would be alive
if not for the aprons, the flowers…