Blackamoors, Villa La Pietra

I was here before the blackamoors

     were photographed & cataloged,

         when they first ran up to me

& then receded into their poses,

     descendants of archival Hamites

         destined to serve their brothers

& sisters in a red baroque room,

     each silent as an iron doorstop.

         Some peered out of perches

askance, shining lanterns & sconces,

     ready to please, or eager to cast

         a guiding light among centuries

of shadows, a patina of mystery

     lost in Tuscan dusk. At least

         their attire isn’t stitched rags.

If ebony & alabaster could talk,

     Lord, the volumes of gossip

         among  gold-leafed tributes

we would hear as vinegar turns

     back to wine, driftwood to bread.

         They’ve been perfectly arranged,

& almost reveal whose sweat

     glosses their smooth skin

         in these rooms of rehearsal.

I saw one shift slightly & blink,

     or maybe it was a dark hum

         coming from the olive grove,

a feeling brought across the sea.

     They are not claw-footed props

         & furniture for drunken nights

posed to grab a hat or fur coat,

     dressed in skeins of filigree

         & false gems, offering a bowl

of  black grapes to each envoy

     or a guest holding a dagger

         behind his upright back.