through me, you first fell into the flat heat of florence summer. I held
you in the mornings and late afternoons. Your father studied physics and the theories
of vibrating strings. Behind his booming sonatas, I became like the hills, that silent surrounding.
I was seventeen in the lemon grove with
you, I remember warm
grass and looking up at the web
of branches above you, the movement
of celestial bodies
all dim light on my back
When I was six we walked and walked and walked in the evenings and you told me about Kepler and Copernicus
and the details of planetary rotations. You drew diagrams of a heliocentric universe in the dirt. You said that
I was born of sinful fornication so no one would marry me. So I take the veil. Rename myself Sister Maria Celeste.