She hates Siena,

the rush of bodies at the campo,

the cannon shuddering, releasing hosannas of pigeons,

the clamor of ocean erupting from the crowd’s open mouth

as Sardinians ride bareback

to death. Later, in her room,

she strips and cools herself

against the despair

of her pensione’s plaster walls,

streaked in yellow marble clouds.

She hears again the obscene passion of horses;

she touches her stiff pubic hair with two hands,

pressing the small of her back

into the wall, sensing new hands emerging,

forking off her own wrists, circling her waist,

pressing hard below her left breast,

she drops her head, spilling her mane of hair

red as Siena, past her shoulder, under her arm,

onto her copper nipples. She does not

let go.