and their sick child in the hilltop villa Byron rented
but never saw. Her children bloomed briefly
like summer roses, quickly wilting in the Italian
sun. Before Italy was Italy, her daughter's fever
climbed like a vine in a doctorless village.
I sat in the garden and dreamed of him, of them,
closed my eyes and let the late October heat
carry much-needed perfume to my skin. Fat,
fertile flowers drooped heavy with bees and my
ragged fingernail set one free. This much I know:
the traveler tends to her own temperatures.
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