Experiencing Giotto’s “Lamentation” in Padua
I didn’t do my homework very well.
The sylvan-looking setting of the chapel
in photos cautioned, “Don’t ask Mom to grapple
with bus stairs, twice, to see this. She’ll rebel.
No woods are walkable from your hotel.
Within the crowded Old Town walls, the map’ll
offer lots of plums. Forget this apple.
It’s out of reach. Give up. It’s hopeless.”
Hell,
we’ve walked right past it several times today!
I can’t believe it’s only blocks away.
Or bricks away, as—ticketless—I lay
my hand on walls that hide what they display.
That angel’s grimace (Anguish! Grief! Dismay!)
I cannot see says all I cannot say.
Soliloquy, the Night Before Our Cruise
My mother is delightful.
She’s lovely company—
amusing and insightful.
(Stand-offish, sullen, spiteful,
and self-absorbed? That’s me.)
My mother is gregarious,
while I’m an introvert.
Our common ground’s precarious.
With strangers, she’s hilarious;
I stay on high alert.
My mother is a charmer.
My shyness makes her ache
to pry me from my armor.
When I can’t hide, I harm her,
like any cornered snake.
My mother is immutably
a talker; I stay mute,
“mm-hmm, mm-hmm”-ing suitably
(unless she’s indisputably
inciting a dispute).
My mother needs attention.
She’s dying to converse.
I live in apprehension
of squabbling and dissension,
but Mom thinks peace is worse.
My mother’s perturbation
by silence is inbuilt.
I’m such an aberration,
I’d think I’m no relation
if not for daughter-guilt.
My mother is my mirror.
She’s me, reversed, and yet
as conflict grows severer,
our stubborn streaks grow clearer:
they make a matching set.
My mother loves to bicker.
And banter. And debate.
She’s hooked on talk, like liquor.
Tomorrow, I can sic her
on someone else. Can’t wait.