Arminta

I remember how she loved
The furriers and butchers of Siena.
How in autumn our lives
Became simple elegance.
How we were concealed
By the walls of the Piazza de Fortebranda.
On long afternoons
We would pluck huge bunches
Of muscatel grapes.
Everything opened up.
Springs rushed by al mussante.
The air filled with bittersweet smells of tanneries,
Noises of washerwomen beating their clothes, singing.
I did not know she was dying.
Did not know her father sold
Her to his companions
For glasses of wine.
I now know her courage,
Her desperate violence.
    (Steps of soldiers echoed in the piazza)
In the harshness of that winter
I sheltered in a café,
Overheard soldiers speak
Of the sad funeral
Of a woman they all knew.

Juan Beauregaard-Montez
Lakeland, FL, USA