Poem: Palatine Hill by Wanda O’Connor
Find me not in the Pantheon but with the aviaries of
‘mark yourself foreign’
Remnants of copper wire pierce the earth, my own flesh
and blood leaves me
with Caesar’s sensations of fullness1 __(two solitudes: one a secret fault)
a life I could not live
for lack of mapping at the start and rummaging through the middle, peaking at
I live in errands, in ends and joints. Shedding,
make that puffing,
as a single sheet hanging
from a wire,
more figuring than balancing.
I have a secret river I call Rubicon
and collect fragments of hoof, nets and stream.
To walk the river is to slip.
To walk the river is to to ache  nostos altos (pain-return).
To walk the river is to whisk surface into the harbor that is body.
To walk the river is to recur.
I hope to find the remnants of a Roman street ____carnelian-cast
an object I can wear around my neck.
Least of all
I want the field
where I stood staring at the voice of my grandmother shouting for a parent as I stroked the workhorse repeatedly.
1 falling sickness