Driving up the street knowing each bump and dip by memory.
I ease my speed in the rough places, gently twist the wheel in the curving places, and accelerate in the smooth places.
Able to find my way with eyes closed like the game played as a child passenger guessing the location on a drive taken more often than grandpa's medicine.
The grass is wet and glows a brighter green than usual.
The James' house is decorated for a new season, while the Baldwin's house maintains its pristine ice plant.
The off-road path to church has grown over, but its traces remain.
Pulling up the driveway is a vast black sea. Not even the glossy cherry car makes its bold appearance.
No one knew exactly when I would arrive.
Walking to the door to the beat of my heart.
No thought or effort involved.
Turning the lock with my key and preparing for the rush of twelve paws, wagging tails, and desperate tongues.
The smells of cooking, new candles, and mom's perfume hug my nose.
Cortona
Cortona was an unknown bookstore that contained the world's finest treasures and mysteries.
The city had a sparkling light that blinded with its splendor, but few saw.
The smell of rich, authentic, much too heavy, but perfectly salted and spiced food consumed all its guests.
The taste of the olive oil accompanied every dish. A perfect balance of bitter olives and sweet oil created a round tone that rolled smoothly over the tongue and down the throat.
The incredibly old buildings did not appear wrinkled and on their death bed, but a beautifully aged white wine with crackling shades of tan, yellow, and gold.
Each summer night the loud, happy melodies of local bands called foreign ears to join their festivals.
Every object felt as if touched by King Midas. The hotel beds gleamed a buff as warm as the mother's womb, the stone and bricks felt cracked and dry from the heat of the golden sun, the linen clothing displayed in quaint stores caught the eye and felt divine as if laced with gold threads.
Even the water felt smoother, colder, softer as it healed my dry throat, almost carrying an allusion of olive oil.
Cortona redefined amazing.
Everyone could see the light it exhaled.
Entering a dark, cold cellar I shuddered.
Natasha's remark replaced an American "um" with an "eh, it is a bit cold here, no?"
Our bodies sighed warmth upon hearing her voice.
The round barrels of passion turned out to be the famous intoxicating drink of crushed grapes.
I floated away into the miraculously blue sky above the tall, slim cypress trees.
"Jessie, you will return to this land of enchantment," I thought as if there were no possible way around it.
The abhorrently perfect pizza had shoved my previous opinions and tastes off their once steady and straight track.
It was obvious that my American roots had been hacked with a chainsaw and my branches had sewn themselves tightly onto the Italian flag.
"GRAZIE!" I shouted to the country.
"Prego!" The pasta resounded back to me.
The sunset scintillated gold, pink, and orange echoing the colors of the ample carbs.
Cortona was an unknown bookstore that contained the world's finest treasures and mysteries.
The city had a sparkling light that blinded with its splendor, but few saw.
The smell of rich, authentic, much too heavy, but perfectly salted and spiced food consumed all its guests.
The taste of the olive oil accompanied every dish. A perfect balance of bitter olives and sweet oil created a round tone that rolled smoothly over the tongue and down the throat.
The incredibly old buildings did not appear wrinkled and on their death bed, but a beautifully aged white wine with crackling shades of tan, yellow, and gold.
Each summer night the loud, happy melodies of local bands called foreign ears to join their festivals.
Every object felt as if touched by King Midas. The hotel beds gleamed a buff as warm as the mother's womb, the stone and bricks felt cracked and dry from the heat of the golden sun, the linen clothing displayed in quaint stores caught the eye and felt divine as if laced with gold threads.
Even the water felt smoother, colder, softer as it healed my dry throat, almost carrying an allusion of olive oil.
Cortona redefined amazing.
Everyone could see the light it exhaled.
Entering a dark, cold cellar I shuddered.
Natasha's remark replaced an American "um" with an "eh, it is a bit cold here, no?"
Our bodies sighed warmth upon hearing her voice.
The round barrels of passion turned out to be the famous intoxicating drink of crushed grapes.
I floated away into the miraculously blue sky above the tall, slim cypress trees.
"Jessie, you will return to this land of enchantment," I thought as if there were no possible way around it.
The abhorrently perfect pizza had shoved my previous opinions and tastes off their once steady and straight track.
It was obvious that my American roots had been hacked with a chainsaw and my branches had sewn themselves tightly onto the Italian flag.
"GRAZIE!" I shouted to the country.
"Prego!" The pasta resounded back to me.
The sunset scintillated gold, pink, and orange echoing the colors of the ample carbs.
Collaboration Pantoum
(With Jessica Avenzino)
On tip toes she twirled.
Her pink tattered tutu flutters.
Her ballet shoes two sizes too small
Squeak as she turns with awkward grace.
Her pink tattered tutu flutters,
The imperfect linolium
Squeaks as she turns with awkward grace.
Her dreams of dancing just beyond reach.
The imperfect linolium
Her mother couldn't fix
Her dreams of dancing just beyond reach
Determined to succeed she twirls again.
Her mother couldn't fix
The girls tattered dreams
Determined to succeed she twirls again
Her smile masks the pain of blistered feet.
The girls tattered dreams
As on tip toes she twirled
Her smile masks the pain of blistered feet
Her ballet shoes two sizes too small.
All poems by me! Jessie McIntyre
(With Jessica Avenzino)
On tip toes she twirled.
Her pink tattered tutu flutters.
Her ballet shoes two sizes too small
Squeak as she turns with awkward grace.
Her pink tattered tutu flutters,
The imperfect linolium
Squeaks as she turns with awkward grace.
Her dreams of dancing just beyond reach.
The imperfect linolium
Her mother couldn't fix
Her dreams of dancing just beyond reach
Determined to succeed she twirls again.
Her mother couldn't fix
The girls tattered dreams
Determined to succeed she twirls again
Her smile masks the pain of blistered feet.
The girls tattered dreams
As on tip toes she twirled
Her smile masks the pain of blistered feet
Her ballet shoes two sizes too small.
All poems by me! Jessie McIntyre
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