Ernesto Trejo

I Will Tell You

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I will tell you, Alighieri,
why yesterday you couldn't write.
Long ago, in Bologna, at Mama
Luisa's brothel you mocked
your professor, his theological
shortcomings. The sun
gathered in the cup
of the elm
and then was gone. Then
you envied no one,
not the bishop who's been
pregnant for ten years,
not the Pope
or the ring of gnats
over his head.
Later, your cat purred
and fell asleep
and you thought of her dreams.
Beyond the Alps,
smelling of money, the wind
was born in Venice.
Maybe tonight
you can tell the world
how pride was erased
from your forehead.

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