behind my first suitor.
“Did he have a stench
about him?” Mother asks.
“Indeed,” I say, and
we collapse in laughter,
and Mother feels
like a friend
for the first time.
GIOVANNA’S SONGS
disappear like raindrops
into the sea. Only sad notes
sob against her pillow at night.
This morning I want to say,
“Isn’t it a beautiful day?”
or “Can I help you shine
that bowl?” I clear my throat
of its toads and attempt to hum,
but my melody is a boorish grunt.
I ask Vanna, “Can you sing
that hymn from Mass?”
Giovanna spears me
with one sharp “No.”
A fish so dead I cannot flail
but slump to my bed,
my eyes spin blank and glassy.
Who stole my sister, and why?
I tiptoe to the window
in my large straw hat.
People gather below
and point up at me.
A woman shakes
her head. “No, it’s not her.”
And they all stride on.
“What’s wrong with you?”
I raise my voice like
a high fierce wind.
“I will go away,
but must you punish them?”
I gesture to the street below.
Vanna widens her lips;
a scratchy sound
like a poorly bowed violin
escapes her throat.
“I cannot sing.”
She turns from me,
weeping into her hands.
“There’s something from hell about me.”
I shake my head. “No.”
I try to garland my arms
around her neck.
“Do not touch me.”
Giovanna brandishes
her brush as a club.
“You have cursed me already.
Just leave me alone.”
I wanted to share
my story of the awful Debratto
with her, but I guess I will be solo
on this, only Mother to guide me.
OUR FAMILY NEEDS HELP
Marino clasps Mother’s hands.
I know I should return
to my bedchamber,
that the scene in the parlor
is private, but my feet
smolder into the floor.
“Paolo cannot handle
all of our orders.
He spends hours a day
with that courtesan Beatrice,
bewitched by her swooshing skirts.
He has lost focus.”
Marino inhales, then blows
out his breath
like he was working a punty.
“There is a gaffer all the families
bid to attain right now named Luca.
Giova believes if we sell off
our second fornica we might secure him.”
Marino looks at Mother
as if he were a child of five.
He kneels and kisses her hands.
Mother shakes her head.
“Your father asked me never to sell
the second furnace.”
“But we cannot afford materials,
cannot staff it; the kilns
are in disrepair.” Marino sighs.
“I do not want to sell it either,
but what else can we do?”
Mother rises and purses her lips.
“What if we give this Luca
a piece of the business,
make him half owner
of the second furnace
instead of selling it?”
“Make him, who comes
from the lower labor class,
like one of our family?”
Marino shakes his head.
“That could be dangerous.
Luca may not hold the same
respect for our family name
and business.”
I inch down the stairs.
Uncle Giova, silent as a chalice,
eyes the action from a corner chair.
Uncle finally speaks.
“On the other hand,
giving Luca a sizable stake
in our fornica
could build loyalty.
I am not sure he will receive
such offers from other families,
seeing as he has no known background.
Your mother’s plan has merit.
I will propose this to Luca.”
Marino pounds the table,
but then like the sky
after thunder and illumination,
he stills and quiets.
“Let it stand that I was against
this plan, but I will do my all
to make it work.”
Mother hugs her son.
“Let me speak to Paolo.
I will present this as a gift
not a dagger.”
All heads nod.
I turn and scamper up the stairs.
Giovanna glares down at me
with a wicked toothy grin.
“Maria, why are you standing
there on the stairs?” she says
so it echoes.
TROUBLE
My sister’s spite
poisons my veins.
Mother banishes me
to the tower of my room.
I must pray my prayer beads
all day because my ears
burned to hear
what they should not.
But worse,
Mother speaks to me
like a child not her own,
no camaraderie in her tone.
Giovanna never tattled on me,
rattled her tail,
spit venom in my face, before.
But because I must marry?
I grab her favorite brush,
dangle it out the window.
It would fragment
should I release it.
Vanna would do this to me.
But I cannot let it go.
I lay the brush on her vanity
and open my armoire.
What I want to do
is melt these dresses
in the fornica!
I want my sister back.
I long to tell her about Luca,
not have her delight
because I am a caged bird—
with nothing to see but old men,
with nothing to do, nothing I can draw,
and no one to talk to.
I yank my hair
and soak my pillow
in a storm of tears.
Mother’s scalding eyes,
so disappointed.
Will she trust me again?
And really,
what is wrong with me?
Why can’t I just do
what my father wanted?
SECOND SUITOR
A tall man with a speckled beard
and a senator’s crimson cloak
gaits up our walk
as though he were heralded
into our home like a duke.
He sniffs the air,
brushes off his coat,
and his manservant
hands my mother
a box of oranges and pears
from the Far East.
I peer into the box;
the oranges are the size
of a baby’s hand.
“My family, as you may know,
trades silks,” Signore Langestora explains.
“I am in charge of the shades
of blue we purchase. I will send
you over a bolt of our latest azure
so that Maria may have a dress made
for the next time we meet.�
��
Mother smiles at each word
that spits forth from this man’s mouth.
She did not heed my father as attentively.
Never once does Signore Langestora
glance in my direction;
it is as though he courts Mother.
I suppose this is customary.
I seal my mouth,
do not want to disgrace my family.
A sand martin flutters outside,
beating her wings against the pane glass
as though she wishes to be let in.
At first I want to signal her away,
far away from our house,
let her know that in this place
she will feel trapped
by the ceilings and closed doors.
But the bird flits foolishly at the window,
tired of the wind and waves,
looking for a cage inside
our warm safe home.
She wishes to land, not
hop from one branch to the next,
endlessly hungry.
“Maria would see the world,”
Signore Langestora says,
“as we would spend half the year at sea.
I assume she is accustomed to travel?”
“Well, actually”—Mother hesitates—
“she has never left Murano.”
“Fifteen and never off this little island?”
He slaps his thigh with a laugh.
“Well, we will test her sea legs, then.
I will be back in three days
to discuss the arrangements
with Marino and Giova.”
He kisses Mother’s hands,
nods to me,
readjusts his cloak and hat,
and exits.
I understand most business transactions,
but what just transpired
I cannot quite comprehend.
THE ARRIVAL OF LUCA
No procession with banners
or festival of boats,
but Carlotta prepares a feast
worthy of the Podesta,
the political leader of Murano—
appetizers of grapes, figs, and
Berlingozzo, followed by courses
of pigeon with trout, veal with sausage,
and my favorite, capon.
My stomach squeals
for the dishes to be served,
though this new-fashioned corset
with its tightly laced strings
will scarcely allow me
to sample each one.
I peek out my window
like a curious bird
twisting her head halfway round
until my neck strains.
Giovanna just brushes her hair.
I expect trumpets to sound,
doors to unhinge,
but we are simply called to meal,
as our guest has arrived.
Luca’s back reveals
a craftsman’s brown cloak,
nothing to note;
still, the twenty-two-year-old
ruffles his shoulders and awaits
Uncle’s servile assistance
with his drapings
as though Uncle were his manservant,
when properly it is Luca
who should kneel
to my uncle.
My uncle handles Luca’s cape
as Marino presents Giovanna and me,
but Luca pays kinder eyes
to the canal rats.
So as Luca and all swivel round,
I thrust my tongue at Luca’s better side.
Preparations for this meal
three days in the making,
and our guest offers no comment
on the food or glassware we serve.
We ought to pour him dog urine.
“Did you not like your capon, Luca?”
“I found it salty.”
He snubs his piggish nose
and searches the table
for the source of the question.
“What you taste is thyme,”
I say, before I can consider
practicing decorum.
And after consideration
I determine God
will forgive me.
“And rosemary,”
he says, and stands.
“Who is speaking?”
I rise and curtsy.
Luca’s gray eyes whirl.
Mother’s voice lashes.
“Maria, apologize now!
Then take your leave.”
I pick up my skirts
with verve and clamor,
but I hold quiet my tongue.
Whether or not
Mother forgives me.
TIDES OF IMPORT
Mother forgets to be angry
with me,
because like an ocean claiming the beach
at high tide,
Luca moves into and then overtakes
the second fornica
as though it belongs only to him.
Marino wears
a mask of I-told-you-so,
until he realizes
Mother’s nerves leave her faint.
Uncle Giova
tells Mother not to worry so much,
that tides shift back.
I overhear her frantic
“But at the speed he is producing glass,
Luca will raise money
to open the second fornica within months.
I am beginning to regret
that I did not heed Marino and keep the business
Perhaps I disrespect Angelo’s wishes in this way.”
Mother bites her lower lip.
“Even so.” Uncle hushes her. “Please,
do not
let your children catch wind of your fears.”
So instead
Mother obsesses over
“Where is the bolt of azure silk
Signore Langestora promised?”
Did the boat capsize?
Did Carlotta’s ears miss
the knock of delivery?
Mother paces the front hall
like a hungry seabird
combing the shore for scraps,
back and forth,
back and forth.
I inch down the stairs.
Mother’s head hangs limp
as wet clothes on a line.
“Where is he?”
Mother asks my brothers.
Paolo snaps,
“I would have taken up
swords with him,
but Signore Langestora
is missing as frost in heat.”
Marino adds,
“He has likely sailed
to the East. Wherever he is,
he does not intend
to honor his word.”
“I had hoped this was settled,”
Mother says to Marino.
“But we shall have to start all over.”
“Do not fret,” Marino says.
“It will be an easier task
now that Luca is here.
His work is as fine as they say,
and he produces pieces
as fast as lightning
branches the sky.
A true genius, I tell you.
Paolo and I can interview
noblemen for Maria tomorrow
and with more care.”
Marino offers Mother his kerchief.
“Oh no, I shed no tears over
that Signore Langestora
and his false promises.
He shall regret not marrying my daughter.”
I’d sooner swallow glass
than marry that thin-nosed fish-eye
or any man who insults my family.
MY ESCAPE
So I am not wanted
by a man of crimson cloak
or my sister;
w
hy should I care?
I am hard as glass,
and any dare break me
or cross me
shall be cut.
I sneak past my mother
and my brothers,
refuse the prison of my room.
I trail the servants who stoke
the furnace fires,
their arms choked with wood.
They hasten me away.
None permit me near the flames,
but I wait, patient as a monk.
And when the servants saunter away
I unlatch the furnace door.
Luca alone stands within,
and he waves me inside.
A BRIEF RESPITE
“You are quite dressed
for the furnace this morning,”
Luca says without lifting his eyes.
Why does he not address me
like the lady I am, as he should?
I feel my cheeks begin to ire pink
but will not be flustered.
I brush my hands
on my new velvet petticoat.
“Yes, well, Mother and I were to—
oh, never you mind.
Where is Paolo?”
I ask the question
though I know well
my brother is at the palazzo.
Luca shrugs and beckons me forth.
I might turn and run
or disobey him out of spite,
but the furnace fire
warms me,
and in his work clothes
Luca loses a hint of his bitter smell.
“Maria, bring me the pincers.”
Luca stretches out his hand.
“Unless you are too fair
for such work.”
Why I fasten on an apron
I can’t exactly say.
Perhaps it is because Luca
has remembered my name,
but more likely it is lack
of anything better to do.