Perhaps Aphrodite

Perhaps Aphrodite Cult statue of a goddess, perhaps Aphrodite (425–400 BC), in the Getty Museum, Los Angeles

Does a breeze ripple the limestone folds? One foot forward (some toes missing),

she advances — hard to resist. The marble arm outstretched in mute fluorescence,

must have held something once. A gold apple? Her face gives little away except

there is a definite invitation to worship, which we do in our own way, circling,

recircling the plinth, hearing in this hall built with unholy oil, whispers of war.

Choosing a Life Pretend I was born in Arezzo, know its streets like the back of my hand, speak like a native. Visiting Roma, I only have to open my mouth and they'll say: Aha! A Tuscan!

Now picture me back in the Piazza Grande drinking coffee, a hundred pigeons scrabbling at my feet. They're hoping a few crumbs will fall onto the pavement's red and white geometry.

Another thought: in the square there's a stall with a sign GELATO perched on its roof. Can you see me, white-aproned, white-capped, scooping out smooth limone, ananas, fragola, — 2 euros a cone, 3 euros for tourists?

Or else, think of me in the Duomo, escaping the August heat. After a nap I say a short prayer to Sant'Egidio, a one-time local, my pious mother claims can fix most things.

Or, (how's this!) I'm a Professor of Fine Arts, reading my acclaimed monograph on Piero della Francesca. I'm at the Casa Vasari and the visiting audience, Friends of the Museum of Art (Philadelphia), are deeply impressed.

Choose any of these, as I stroll off into the dusk, past blue, Etruscan-tall shadows.