I would dream of of taking trains to
San Remo or Milano.
A café, I could imagine, with
wine glasses so old
they are cracking from the
inside out. I thought perhaps,
on my birthday, a ferry or night
out among foreign lighting–trying
strange foods for the first time,
ones that I would never taste
again; ones that don’t have a name in
English, or a flavor I can recognize.
For days, this place would have
belonged to he and I.
Turin, the home of the holy
shroud—Christ’s face embedded,
burned into linen, held in a baroque
chapel. It wouldn’t have been
on display those days, but I would
have known it was there.
Like a kidnapped child, locked
away and waiting for someone
to condemn whomever has
chained him up.