thought that you agreed
to marry Andrea?”
My sister looks at me
as though I am a cloud
obscuring an otherwise blue sky.
“Why are you suddenly going
against the plans?”
Oh, the rains come to my eyes
and rage down upon my face,
and I can’t help but blurt it out.
“I think that I …
that I, well, I care for Luca.”
The clouds have left Vanna’s
head. She smiles.
“So now you finally admit
what I knew all along.”
I nod and snuffle like a child.
“Well, this is a fine mess,”
she says, and mops the tears
from my dress.
Mother arrives like hail,
unexpected and not at all
what we wanted or needed
in terms of a change of weather.
“Girls, our ship
for the Bembo palazzo
has just arrived.”
SORELLA (SISTER)
How am I supposed to act?
Vanna and I did not have
time to formulate a plan.
Mother has her tidy little notions
tucked in like bed linens,
or so she believes,
though I toss and turn
on my mattress and sweat
the sheets in nightmares.
Leona recites for me, without heart,
the names of her aunts. “Lucretia,
Margaretta, Josephine, Rosaria— ricordare her,
she is the one with the twin sons,”
she says, as if I will remember
any of this, as if Leona wants
to call me sorella .
Then I spy him again behind
a hydrangea bush.
Does Andrea not have
senatorial business to attend to?
I call out, “Andrea,”
as I should not, but I don’t care,
he should not scrounge in bushes.
At first Andrea thinks to scamper
away like a rat, but then he brushes
off his vest and approaches us.
“Buongiorno,” he says.
He kisses first my mother’s hand
and then mine, but finally my sister’s.
And it does seem to me that once again
a man grasps Vanna’s palm
tighter than he should, and his lips
linger on her fingers a few seconds
longer than is decorous.
Andrea looks up into her eyes,
and Vanna smiles at him
as though Andrea handed her
a thousand ducats, as though
something magical has passed
between them.
“We are planning the seating
arrangements for the betrothal
ceremony and processional.”
Leona’s lips curl up like a gondola
in the presence of her brother.
She also is taken in by his apparent charm—
a man stumbling from a bush?
They seem a happy family.
And yet somehow when I
step aboard the Bembo boat
it capsizes, as though my weight
upsets its careful balance.
Giovanna shimmers at the Bembo
palazzo. She seems already
to be a sister of Leona’s
and sits comfortably at the table
during meal.
“I love the hat you chose
for the betrothal dress, Maria.”
Leona points at my head
with a bit of hope.
“Vanna selected it,” I say quietly.
I see the gondola sink
deeper into the sea for me
and swing its door wide
for Giovanna.
“I should have surmised,” Leona says,
in a voice reserved for children.
Part of me wishes
to thrash my tongue at her.
But I just rap my fingers on my knees,
knowing we soon leave port for Murano.
The noon sun
shines bright and direct upon us.
The glare catches Vanna’s eyes
such that she pains, and I remove
my new hat and place it upon
my sister’s head.
It looks so lovely, feathered
and correct. It always belonged
upon her crown. And after the
fierce sun passes when Vanna
tries to give it back, I refuse
to take it.
MI RIFIUTO (I REFUSE)
I refuse to accept
that nothing can be done
but to accept
that I must marry Andrea Bembo
and Giovanna must marry Luca.
I refuse to believe
we should follow a will
that breaks tradition and hearts and sense
like a crew who go down
with their sinking vessel
when we all can
kick and swim to shore.
I grab my sketchbook
and rush to the place
I feel most afloat—
the fornica.
BETROTHAL GOBLET
The goblet’s beauty terrifies
like a gem so large
it overwhelms the hand
that wears it.
“Well, does the noblewoman
herself come
to examine her wares?”
He bows down
in an exaggerated curtsy
and extends me the glass.
“I present your
to marry Andrea?”
My sister looks at me
as though I am a cloud
obscuring an otherwise blue sky.
“Why are you suddenly going
against the plans?”
Oh, the rains come to my eyes
and rage down upon my face,
and I can’t help but blurt it out.
“I think that I …
that I, well, I care for Luca.”
The clouds have left Vanna’s
head. She smiles.
“So now you finally admit
what I knew all along.”
I nod and snuffle like a child.
“Well, this is a fine mess,”
she says, and mops the tears
from my dress.
Mother arrives like hail,
unexpected and not at all
what we wanted or needed
in terms of a change of weather.
“Girls, our ship
for the Bembo palazzo
has just arrived.”
SORELLA (SISTER)
How am I supposed to act?
Vanna and I did not have
time to formulate a plan.
Mother has her tidy little notions
tucked in like bed linens,
or so she believes,
though I toss and turn
on my mattress and sweat
the sheets in nightmares.
Leona recites for me, without heart,
the names of her aunts. “Lucretia,
Margaretta, Josephine, Rosaria— ricordare her,
she is the one with the twin sons,”
she says, as if I will remember
any of this, as if Leona wants
to call me sorella .
Then I spy him again behind
a hydrangea bush.
Does Andrea not have
senatorial business to attend to?
I call out, “Andrea,”
as I should not, but I don’t care,
he should not scrounge in bushes.
At first Andrea thinks to scamper
away like a rat, but then he brushes
off his vest and approaches us.
“Buongiorno,” he says.
He kisses first my mother’s hand
and then mine, but finally my sister’s.
And it does seem to me that once again
a man grasps Vanna’s palm
tighter than he should, and his lips
linger on her fingers a few seconds
longer than is decorous.
Andrea looks up into her eyes,
and Vanna smiles at him
as though Andrea handed her
a thousand ducats, as though
something magical has passed
between them.
“We are planning the seating
arrangements for the betrothal
ceremony and processional.”
Leona’s lips curl up like a gondola
in the presence of her brother.
She also is taken in by his apparent charm—
a man stumbling from a bush?
They seem a happy family.
And yet somehow when I
step aboard the Bembo boat
it capsizes, as though my weight
upsets its careful balance.
Giovanna shimmers at the Bembo
palazzo. She seems already
to be a sister of Leona’s
and sits comfortably at the table
during meal.
“I love the hat you chose
for the betrothal dress, Maria.”
Leona points at my head
with a bit of hope.
“Vanna selected it,” I say quietly.
I see the gondola sink
deeper into the sea for me
and swing its door wide
for Giovanna.
“I should have surmised,” Leona says,
in a voice reserved for children.
Part of me wishes
to thrash my tongue at her.
But I just rap my fingers on my knees,
knowing we soon leave port for Murano.
The noon sun
shines bright and direct upon us.
The glare catches Vanna’s eyes
such that she pains, and I remove
my new hat and place it upon
my sister’s head.
It looks so lovely, feathered
and correct. It always belonged
upon her crown. And after the
fierce sun passes when Vanna
tries to give it back, I refuse
to take it.
MI RIFIUTO (I REFUSE)
I refuse to accept
that nothing can be done
but to accept
that I must marry Andrea Bembo
and Giovanna must marry Luca.
I refuse to believe
we should follow a will
that breaks tradition and hearts and sense
like a crew who go down
with their sinking vessel
when we all can
kick and swim to shore.
I grab my sketchbook
and rush to the place
I feel most afloat—
the fornica.
BETROTHAL GOBLET
The goblet’s beauty terrifies
like a gem so large
it overwhelms the hand
that wears it.
“Well, does the noblewoman
herself come
to examine her wares?”
He bows down
in an exaggerated curtsy
and extends me the glass.
“I present your
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