Roma –Sonnet 8

In my last days in Rome,

evening turned itself inside out
until night and invisible.
The window: a black mirror of self,
reflects the strained woman face
of a wife who knows all of a sudden:
the jig is up. Stop pretending
this wedding ring means anything.

The traffic is my voice, howling-

And the wet streets: my cheeks
carved infinite with the road maps
of old warriors and horse-drawn carts
carrying marble from the quarry
to the workshop where God talks to the chisel.