Santuario

Santuario

Soft patches of sun connect and

spread over her from pale, fresh skies;

a quilt of warmth slid to her hand.

The lazy light reaches her eyes;

awake and bloody red, they shun

the new day, she renews her cries.

Clock strikes; hitting her like a gun,

she wishes. Looking around, she

remembers she is safe, don’t run.

The kitchen smells creep in, some glee.

Biscotti and cornetti fill

antique plates, small cups for coffee.

His warm smile strains to warm her chill,

his body, timeworn, his accent,

thick. “Children should be cherished still.”

She roams his garden to lament

her ravaged childhood. Meaty, red

tomatoes, tangy, heaven-sent.

Sweet basil, low in their green bed;

their leaves, little triangle guards.

A rabbit nearby, overfed.

Crunch of car wheels heard through the yard.

Her mother’s voice, the sound of doom,

cuts her heart like glass, shard by shard.

Leaving heaven; back to her tomb,

the birds mock her, chirping their tune.