Italy, March

I twisted my hair into tight coils while I waited on the plane
and wondered if you were afraid of flying,
wondered if you would want me to hold your hand
while you closed your eyes and tried not to think about
every possible thing that could go wrong.

What would you whisper to me
in the bus barreling across the Tuscan countryside?
I thought, while barreling across the Tuscan countryside.
What would you do to make me nervous as you murmured,
fingertips accidentally touching my thigh
I would have sung your favorite songs,
ones that I knew would make you smile.

Would your eyes crinkle with laughter as we drank
countless cups of coffee,
I asked myself, as I drank Fanta, alone.
Would you have tossed your head skyward,
letting loose a ream of flaxen hair
as the rain poured in front of a cathedral?
“It’s Italian rain. It must be good for me somehow.”
is what you might have said.

Would you have thought me beautiful
if I’d read you Ginsberg in our villa,
if I’d stolen you away and told you I loved you
as the cool wind traced our bodies
and Florence howled below the window,
the Duomo glowing with the moon?

I guess I didn’t know you very well at all,
but I miss the promise of your lips in Italian postcards,
and even now, orange soda tastes of loving you.