A Missed Controversy

I would dream of of taking trains to

San Remo or Milano.

A café, I could imagine, with

paper-like tablecloths;

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.


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