​On my first day in Florence, I saw more penises
(Or is it properly peni?)
Than in all my life before,
Though admittedly, I had seen none,
Invalid and shut-in for all those infernal years
Till Robert’s flame phoenixed me
Into the sun-blessed goddess I’ve become.
So to be more exact, I have seen one male appendage,
His of course, though dimly, under the covers.
England’s passions pale here in the land of naked statues--
Male bodies pulsing with sinews, muscles,
And huge, shoeless feet.
The British wear boots.
 
What was I to do, staggered as I was
By marble torso after marble torso, shoulders, biceps,
Trouserless legs? Even the churches were filled
With muscle-bound saints.
At first I thought the Florentines had unlocked
The secret dreams of women--
         Longings not even allowed in thought
         Images that came in deepest sleep
         In a swirl of crimson the color of warm wine--
         A beating heart in a hard chest
         Pressed against her face
         Strong fingers clutching the small of her back--
         Hot breath like the west wind on the nape of her neck
         And a presence, so tall and solid holding her,
         Whispering his deep need
         How only she can lead him to the heights--
         And he would die
         Would spill every drop of his blood
         To protect her from warriors with swords.
That’s what I thought
In those first heady days in Florence
When Robert and I held hands
Even in the Cathedral and
Saw every statue, every painting,
And every great man’s grave.
Until one Sunday in the Palazzo, the bells from the Duomo
Peeling over the rooftops, as together we gazed
First at Neptune, huge and naked in his fountain,
And then at Perseus, his young, perfect body
Gleaming in the sun--
It was then that I noticed first
The head of Medusa, less beautiful than his own,
Hanging from his perfect hand,
And nearby, two heavily muscled male bodies,
Ravishing a Sabine woman--
Her head held back,
Unimportant.
 
My eyes opened then, as
The yellow Tuscan noonlight
Bathed every inch of marble in this city,
Art’s citadel.
It was then that I saw each statue
Lovingly chiseled by the hands of men.
I saw Michael Angelo in his workshop,
Looking long and longer
At a perfect naked boy,
Stroking the stone, conceiving how to make
The firm flesh even more exquisite in rock.
 
I saw this Florence, the barracks of Dante, of Galileo,
Donatello, Cellini, Machiavelli--
This place of music and color and craft--
This universe of men and men and men
Revolving in planetary orbits
Around other men--
And not a single woman
Even a distant moon.