Matthea Harvey, "The Festival of Giovedi Grasso"

Because it means looking into the sun, the people can barely see
the two boys in the belltower or the two cables running
from it to the ground. One boy crouches in a boat without oars,
the other hangs from a harness in the next archway over,
ready to jump. He doesn't have wings, but he is cherubic, picked
for his wide eyes and smooth cheeks. As he falls he holds
the bouquet the way he's been told to -- far out in front of him
so it looks like a message from God. And in case
the image isn't enough, there's the boy in the boat, tossing
interpretation into the crowds. If the boat wobbles instead
of gliding, it's because he has to get the last few pamphlets
and poems out from under his feet. No gold unless
the gondola is empty when he lands. He is lucky. It is windy
and the words go far. Together their descents form
two arms of a compass. Between them, as if they had drawn it,
the piazza. Must it mean something if two boys who fall
from the same spot land in opposite corners? Must there always
be a lesson? To me it looks like a diagram of the distance
between what we believe and what we do, but it doesn't hold
my attention. The crowd is cheering as the boat's bottom
scrapes along the stones; the other boy is handing over his
flowers even before his heels are fully on the ground.
Dogs are leaping around the fountain with poems in their mouths
and the sun slips down the churchsteps one by one.


Matthea Harvey

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