It’s about sensuality now—a variety of achilleas
in shades of dusty pinks and reds.
Two thousand narcissi flank a narrow waterway,
the relics of saints.
When we met in Rome,
I’d forgotten how elbowy and hard he was
underneath the coating of soft flesh.
He is wearing no fewer than eleven rings—
some stacked three to a finger—
the looks of a Merovingian king.
He can make anyone fall in love with him
over a pitcher of sangria—
you’re suspended, tiny,
based in a children’s crayon drawings.
We were guided by instinct
really interested in the past and the contemporary.
About the Author
Carey Feagan is originally from Virginia, but now live in Central New York with her husband and two cats.
She received her MFA in Creative Writing from Minnesota State University, Mankato.
She is obsessed with the idea of how people take the words we say and warp them into what they want to hear.