I don’t remember much
of the train, but I remember William
who gave me his engraved
penknife at the station
I don’t remember much
of the train, but I remember William
who gave me his engraved
penknife at the station
that spring in Pisa. Jordan
at the other end
in Genoa. Late afternoon,
a lemon light heavy
in the courtyards, seaport
spiny with sailboats. La Superba,
the precarious sorbet scoop
of hillside villas. We were still
children scaling fire escapes,
the city’s proud history lost on us.
I said his story or hers? Showed
my teeth. Shook my hair to the wind
like a Siren. In our hotel room,
the penknife under my pillow,
Jordan asleep on the floor, spooning
nothing. The next day
by the harbour, some fishermen
followed me, hissing,
and I gripped the knife, but Jordan
defended me, fists ready, and later
we laughed it off. On the prow
of a replica pirate ship, sun slicing
into the sea. Somehow
I wasn’t safe. I wanted not to want
William’s knife, or need it, his name
a weight in my pocket. Jordan
handling the flesh of my waist
while the sky turned red
then erased. Even now
it’s hard to remember it
as mine. My waist. My name
for a girl who sang them in
and let them stake their claim.
