It’s a turning month, Marzo,
brimming blue sky
the red birch sticks and pine
fans puzzling
white flower boxes
while stone lions grimace
as birds
tweet. Some young poet
named Jess at the Trident
Cafe recited:
“Dreams
aren’t warnings;
they
are forecasts.” And I
called
you at the shop
the next morning
to tell you I didn’t
mean the malocchio curse.
I bought
gold snake
earrings anyway
at TJMaxx.
They are like molten
stretched sperm
embellishing my
earlobes.
So I circle
back to my assassino,
wicked tongued Italian
flame
as la primavera
strikes, beginning to
breathe vapors
of desire
igniting
my illustrious bee
buzzing pulse.