Hotel Dina

written after seeing my mom cry on vacation in Rome

A something or other memory 

has ripened in a corridor in my mind

its nerve endings flourishing like grapevines

that reach the market below the Hotel Dina.

Lavish meats and cheeses filled the shop to overflowing

as I stood on Via Principe Amadeo wondering why my mothers eyes were watering.

It was easy to read reproach in the orange-tinted Roman afternoon 

but not mom’s rueful look

not when she told me how twenty years ago we couldn’t afford one slice of solace 

from the market

yet today she could buy the whole thing

heavy tears paved their way down her  wrinkled cheeks

tears that spoke a policy of love

a love that cant be picked from between one’s teeth 

but is rendered incomplete 

save it is quickened 

in the dearth of compassion.