They seem a happy family.
And yet somehow when I
step aboard the Bembo boat
it capsizes, as though my weight
upsets its careful balance.
Giovanna shimmers at the Bembo
palazzo. She seems already
to be a sister of Leona’s
and sits comfortably at the table
during meal.
“I love the hat you chose
for the betrothal dress, Maria.”
Leona points at my head
with a bit of hope.
“Vanna selected it,” I say quietly.
I see the gondola sink
deeper into the sea for me
and swing its door wide
for Giovanna.
“I should have surmised,” Leona says,
in a voice reserved for children.
Part of me wishes
to thrash my tongue at her.
But I just rap my fingers on my knees,
knowing we soon leave port for Murano.
The noon sun
shines bright and direct upon us.
The glare catches Vanna’s eyes
such that she pains, and I remove
my new hat and place it upon
my sister’s head.
It looks so lovely, feathered
and correct. It always belonged
upon her crown. And after the
fierce sun passes when Vanna
tries to give it back, I refuse
to take it.
MI RIFIUTO (I REFUSE)
I refuse to accept
that nothing can be done
but to accept
that I must marry Andrea Bembo
and Giovanna must marry Luca.
I refuse to believe
we should follow a will
that breaks tradition and hearts and sense
like a crew who go down
with their sinking vessel
when we all can
kick and swim to shore.
I grab my sketchbook
and rush to the place
I feel most afloat—
the fornica.
BETROTHAL GOBLET
The goblet’s beauty terrifies
like a gem so large
it overwhelms the hand
that wears it.
“Well, does the noblewoman
herself come
to examine her wares?”
He bows down
in an exaggerated curtsy
and extends me the glass.
“I present your betrothal goblet.”
I wish to hurl it at his face,
but instead I set it upon the table.
Luca and I stare at the azure glass,
yet unadorned. I should like
to smash it to a thousand shards.
A scroll of paper tangles
inside the cup’s neck
with flowers and birds
and an inscription
I refuse to accept.
“What is that?”
I point to the paper
in horror.
“The outline for the enameler.
Do you think they just place
glass upon glass without thought—
no, he must know what to paint.”
Luca will no longer look at me.
“Well, take your marriage glass.”
“I will not,” I say.
“Fine, I shall send it with Vanna,
then. What business do you have
in my fornica anyway? Go away,”
he says, with his back turned to me still.
I pick up the ugly scroll
that taints Luca’s work
and quietly tuck it into my dress.
“No, I wish to stay,” I say,
but my voice is no larger
than a pebble in a child’s hand.
VULNERABLE
Luca’s back transforms
from a barrier into a shield,
and I ask with a voice
quiet as a spider spinning a web,
“Luca, do you want to marry
Vanna?”
His turn is soft
as though he were on wheels.
“I want to own the second fornica.
I do not hide this from anyone.
And there is nothing
wrong with your sister.”
As I step closer
to the fire of the fornica
and Luca,
my shadow lengthens.
“I understand.
And you are correct.
My sister is wonderful.”
“What is that you clutch
so tightly?” Luca gestures
to my sketchbook. I almost
forgot that I held it in my arms.
I shake my head no.
Even though I brought it
for him to see,
now I feel I have made
a dreadful mistake.
He wrangles it from my grasp,
and I crumble backward
a few steps like someone
yanked and released my hair.
Luca flips quickly through the sheets.
“But these are all of me?” he says
with that accusing voice of his.
The tears sting, but it is too late
now to run away unknown.
“Yes, you fool, of course they are.
Don’t you know?”
I am swift as gale winds
toward the door,
but Luca blocks my way.
“Stay. Sit down.
Listen now to how I feel,
sweet Maria.”
His hand upon my arm
so warm and gentle,
I melt and bend.
And I know now
he will never allow me
to shatter upon the floor.
LIFTING THE FOG
Luca clasps my hand full
in his and leads me to the bench,
a true gentleman. We sit so close
beside one another our ankles touch,
our hands still laced.
He begins, “I feel as though I have
been in a great fog with you, Maria,
ever since that first moment when
you asked me did I not know
what thyme was.”
I smile.
He squeezes my hand.
“The fog has been lovely
and mysterious, and I have enjoyed
treading and searching through it
for you, but now the weather lifts
and you stand before me in all
your light. And I am not sure
that I deserve you,
for I do not know what a family is,
having neither a mother nor a father
to remember.”
There is a moment when
I think a tear may form
in the crook of his eye.
I want to kiss all his sadness away,
drown it in an ocean of my cheer,
but Luca continues,
“My heart feels for you
like I feel for my greatest glass,
only more, but I am not certain
that this is enough.”
He tries to go on,
but I put a finger to his lips
and draw a smile.
“Oh, but it is,” I say.
“It is more than I could dream
to ask for from anyone. I have
even imagined myself your glass,
only until now I believed
my feelings would shatter me.
And even that
didn’t stop me caring for you.”
Luca kneels before me now.
“Never would I break
one I wish to call family,”
he says.
MY PROTECTOR
Between me and the world,
my sister has always been
safe bedrock in a sinking marsh.
She is a straw hat against noon glare,
a melody bludgeoning night gloom.
Between me and my doubts,
my sister is a shore
that breaks tides apart.
Her cathedral bells ring
day in and out.
Between me and my mother,
my sister is cristallo.
She can see both sides
and remain lovely and unbroken
to each.
Between me and my impatient heart,
my sister navigates breakwaters
with steady hands.
So what if I
have stolen from my sister
a thing she precious desires to keep—
her chance to become a bride?
HOW TO EXPLAIN
Before I can think of what to say
to plead my side of it,
Vanna grasps my hands.
“Maria, I have a solution.
You see, I think I know
how to solve all of these entanglements.
Why are you so flushed
and yet pale? Sit down.
Where have you been?”
My sister’s words
are rapid as a hailstorm,
and I think I may faint
if I stay on my feet.
“I was with Luca, and, Vanna, I—”
“Wonderful,” Vanna says.
“You must be with him.
Marry him, I mean, for that
is your true destiny.
And I just know
that is what he wishes too.
Sisters know these things.”
Vanna cannot stop talking.
It is as though her mouth
spits dragon fire.
“I know this sounds odd to you,
but I think I may wish to marry
Andrea Bembo. I know
that you find him clumsy at times,
but his awkwardness is quite
precisely his charm to me.
And I do believe it is my destiny
to become a Bembo.
So now all we need to do
is to execute a plan.”
“Oh, yes,” I say with excitement.
“What is the plan?”
“Well, I supposed that you
would think of that portion.”
Vanna looks blankly at me
for a moment.
“I jest,”
she finally says.
“I am not certain yet,
but I do know that I must go
directly to visit Leona
and ask for her aid
in this switching of sisters
we propose.”
Leona helping me,
well that would be quite
different, but if Vanna
thinks it possible …
“You keep Mother occupied,”
Vanna says.
“How am I to do that?”
I ask Giovanna.
“Oh, Maria. Now, you can think
of something you both enjoy,”
Vanna says, and swooshes off
faster than a gale wind.
A LAYER OF ENAMEL
Mother and I polish the beakers,
and she bombards me again
with betrothal ceremony preparations.
“We must think again about
what sort of play act we should hire
to amuse our guests. It is tradition,
of course, to …”
Her voice is a stream of babble
I scarce understand and care
less about than boiled cabbage.
“The betrothal goblet that Luca made?”
I ask her.
Mother perks up at the word betrothal
from my lips. I so rarely utter it.
“Yes, it certainly is fine,” she says.
“How does the enameler inscribe and apply
the decoration to the glass?” I ask her.
Fully deflated by my technical question,
not related in fact to marriage preparations,
Mother demands, “What does it matter, Maria?”
“I just want the glass to be perfect,
as it reflects on Father and our family.”
“I had not thought of that.”
I ask her again, “Do you know the technique?”
“The enameler in essence paints on the enamel,
which is also glass. I believe then that the goblet
is reheated to a melting point so the enamel
attaches to the goblet but not so severely
that the glass entirely loses its shape.
Why don’t you take the goblet
to the enameler and see for yourself?” she says.
“May I?”
“Did I not just give you permission?”
“Mother, I also took liberty to draw
some improved birds and flowers
to adorn the cup and traced them
onto a scroll for the enameler.”
I hand my sketchbook
with simple outlines of doves
and roses to Mother.
“Here is the sketch I made,
but I want the final glass to be a present
for Andrea from me and none to see it
beforehand.”
“This is a lovely gesture,” she says,
and launches back into talk of the ceremony,
what we shall eat, where I shall sit,
what everyone shall wear,
her words as dull as
the unpolished glassware before us.
on broken cullet I am so pleased.
For the first portion of my plan
seems to be set.
ENAMELER
Gold is leaf-cut, pressed,
and then fixed into place
with a gummy mixture
just as bricks are laid upon each other
and set to dry in the sun.
The gilder scrapes away
the hearts I marked along the lip
of the betrothal goblet
as carefully as he shaves
hair from his chin.
The enamel is then painted
along my tracings with a fine brush—
first a blue glass paste, then crimson,
then green. The scene
of two lovers exchanging rings,
each astride a horse,
comes to life.
The woman shakes
out bejeweled blond locks,
which none can mistake.
They belong only to one girl,
my sister, Giovanna.
And the man
with the family crest Bembo
can be none other than Andrea.
The cup dries
and heats inside
the annealer so glass
fuses to glass—
and my design
is forever captured
upon Luca’s work.
MY OWN PLAN
My plan is
to ask Andrea
to marry my sister,
no, to ask Andrea
to ask my sister to marry him,
no, to ask Andrea if he wants
to ask my sister if she wants
to marry him.
My plan is
more complicated
than I thought.
My plan begins
with a boat
and a prayer
and a trip to visit Luca.
DISHONOR
As I enter the fornica
I can hardly believe my eyes.
Luca and Andrea?
Andrea draws his sword on Luca.
“I should report you
to the Council of Ten
or slay you here now
for tr
ying to take Maria
from me when she and I have
signed a contract to be ringed.
I would be just to do so.”
“True enough.” Luca sets down
his blowpipe, his arms free
and wide in surrender.
I want to rush between them,
to yank the hem of Andrea’s shirt
like a child tugs her mother’s skirt
for attention. I want to hold Andrea
and his weapon back
from moving toward Luca.
But all I can do is remain
where I stand. Andrea must
have found out about me and Luca
from my sister and Leona.
And he either does not want
to marry my sister
or cannot.
The sword tip grazes
Luca’s blouse. I never
realized the sinister angle
of Andrea’s nose, the strength
and cruelty of his shoulder blade.
“You dishonor my family,
Luca—” and Andrea
pauses thirty-three measures
to think of Luca’s given name.
“What is your family name?”
Andrea asks,
momentarily lowering his sword.
“I have none, sir.
Or do not know what it is.”
Luca stares at Andrea with those eyes
that turn cullet to molten glass.
I wonder what, if any, effect
they might cause upon Andrea.
“Curious,” Andrea says,
again brandishing his weapon.
And then a small tumble
of jacks, blocks, and pincers
turns my head, and Vanna cries,
“No, please, Andrea, stop!”
Andrea’s expression melts
from madness to near joy
at the sight of my sister.