Danielle Badra

the reason why I never lit the wick before now
pollinated pistil of a tiger lily thick with wax
petals of bright orange & burnt yellow & almost alive eleven years ago

on the way to the Pantheon I purchased a candle
at an artisan's stand in an ancient square called Campo de' Fiori
where Giordano Bruno burned at the stake for watching the stars
& acting out the art of memory

my father stared there at the bronze statue & wept without words
my sister & I watched my father weep at the feet of an old martyr
my father would not weep like that again

until he held my sister's hands while she was seizing
I watched him weeping while my sister was seizing
we held hands
from the book LIKE WE STILL SPEAK / University of Arkansas Press
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I wrote "A Candle from Rome, Italy (2003)" two years after my sister passed. Until this point, I'd obsessively written contrapuntal poems alongside my sister's words. I was trying to break out of that form and write about her loss on my own. I drew inspiration for this poem from the somatic exercises in CAConrad's "A Beautiful Marsupial Afternoon: New (Soma)tics" to destroy something linked to a memory of my loved one.
 
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