Writings / Poetry: Chad M. Norman

A Room in Pisa, 1820

Mary napping in grass by the sea;
a small sealed box under one hand

I

My Pisan moon grew
in night-shadows on the wall
as the dually-sired girl I was
sat wryly open-thighed,
exposing my eager whitened cleft,
done with the dark red drop
found on the chair, by the fingers
I knew I needed to taste.

II

When I scanned the scraping branch,
slowly tasting my inner time,
the open breath-dressed window
held the pleasant glowing room,
while the night taught the mind
how to recall each nail’s creak.
No woman knew those rare notes
as she, that Mary, enlivened by quiet.

III

Words that I wrote saw nothing,
my favourite dress back in place
on the cool floor where two feet touched:
Casa Frassi, a new home for that room,
where our circle rested above the Arno
& I saw Exile in a corner with webs,
elated, crouched by the keyhole’s crest
my finger traced after each noon rang.

IV

Songs of tired men rose from the river
to swirl within the wind of night,
as the blonde curtains shared both
I knew chuckle & cheer, unlike any
other moments my image was insignia
for the mirror finally less fulgent,
the sable face stoked by a smile
grown fitful, alone like a fire.

V

Inland gulls brought the hour dawn began,
wings full, as night left for the light
old tales tried to describe–one ray
claimed the one clean pane–a portal
I kept for the sun, my eyes, the game
my finger’s shadow
in that bright circle on the bed.
One brief joy I craved in private.

VI

As I tapped the coals of that night
the scalding poker caught the grate,
a freak instant in the manner of music
caressed my receptive palm, loudly,
active while the room held a height
the keen day kindly fell from,
a cue to undress in the new heat,
stand bare, marvelled by a mood’s rite.