Spiacente from Rome

I apologize for the weather, 
for what my mother taught me not to do, 
even when in desperate need 
of a bathroom. I apologize for the size 
of our hotel room, for the narrow staircase, 
the darting cat.

I apologize at night, inch by inch 
over the small of your back, your shoulder 
blades, your chest. I apologize for the rib
I seem to have taken, the weeping
Virgin on the nightstand, the empty Frascati 
wine bottle hidden in the tombs. More so, 

I apologize for my lack of understanding, 
for opening our suitcase to a man 
who wasn't a security guard, leaving my ticket 
in the restroom, not learning Italian 
or even Spanish. Yes, you were right: Ich haette 
eine romanische Sprache lernen sollen.

I apologize for not wearing 
the right shoes, for blisters upon blisters, 
for the holiness I chased or wanted. I apologize
somewhat for the hours of tourist attractions, 
your windbreakers broken zipper, 
the Saint's foot you forgot to touch. 

I apologize sulfur-fingered 
for lighting the candle when there were already 
enough burning, already enough travelers 
begging for something.

 

© Kelli Russell Agodon

previously published in Can We Have Our Ball Back?