Female Head (La Scapigliata)

Set her apart
from the hands-on woman.

She could be the head
of a young girl with tousled hair
by Davinci, his study
of elegant thought and poise.

From her villa courtyard,
she can feel evening glide
through the high voice
of bells announcing mass
or the hummingbird
sucking nectar from a flower.

Ask her about twilight;
she will tell you
it's a time for gathering
and extracting things
which are different but the same.

Faith, sustenance --
it all depends
on how the eye starves,
the tongue thirsts.


Yet, if cool air fails
to circulate through the vents
of her house, low voltage
in the AC's thermostat, she
remains helpless, inept
at changing batteries. Instead
she might switch her mind
to Tesla; his passion for
electric current, his need
to attract people
with an idealistic charge.

And please, spare her the heat,
the aftertaste of shame.
Set her aside
from the martyred woman
who bakes from scratch.
She cannot separate
eggs for custard or cake,

but she can sing
the history of dessert,
divide sheer hunger
from the sweetness of knowledge --
her Hellenic brow
so beautifully burnished
by a distant sun.