…alla Genovese
by Alyson Dayus
In this rough-edged, inchoate city,
tourists mingle unconcerned amongst the pirates
and Crusaders of history. Their camera-flashes
blind scrawny cats and spotlight fat pigeons
that skulk in the hostile carrugi.* Rucksacks
bob like the buoys in the harbour,
while we eat lunch.
You don’t love me like you used to,
you complain, and as I watch sightseers
munch pizza in the doorways of old palaces,
I avoid your tragic stare. We sit still, while
everything else moves past us; an endless tide
of travellers beats its aspiration against
cruise-liners and yachts. Smug status symbols
blot this city, once a refuge for radicals
who refused to truckle.
I’m comforted by our silence, staring
at the white tablecloth stained with red
garlicky splatters that say less dynastic feud
than mutual ennui. Truant to our conversation,
I mooch through the crude sophistication
of this place; vandals collaborate with old
Masters, the Blessed Virgin gazes down benevolently
next to battered posters for hooligan drug dens.
This decay, to me, is beautiful; it smears
my imagination and feeds my craving
better than endless plates of pasta.
Before long, it’s evening, when markets fold up
and sarcastic prostitutes protect their territories
with heels both bright and sharp. Fierce stallions
have strutted these streets before us, their dung
like giant black olives that secrete a less-than-pleasant
stench. Since the Arabian nights, the sights and smells
here have inspired fascination and fear;
and as we leave, I take your hand, unknowingly.
*alleyways