The Pope’s musketeers are breaking their fast
On the roof above my bed. Harsh burning of kebabs
Reeks down through the gap in the beams, and the retching
Of their caged doves. The captain lowered some charcoal
Last night; my poor girls are cooking eggs now
Behind the screen. Soon they must wrap
And veil up for the street, for the hours lounging
Nibbling bread in the Cardinal’s front hall,
Twisting to keep their heels out of sight.
Then I have time to walk, alone on the carpet
On half the floor, where we eat and sleep together.
Not even the mice scramble on the clean boards.
We keep the bell-shrine there, and the gold chasubles
For the feast day. I must not go out.
But from the egg-shaped window
I can see the girls trailing back home, with a promise.
Indeed, only an hour after the markets close
The deaf runner from the palace climbs
With two silver pieces and odd coppers.
When we were at home it would have been three sheep —
Work for the troop, skinning, washing the guts,
Digging the pit for the fire. When the meat was eaten,
The wool to card and spin.
I am obliged to God for inventing the city,
To the Cardinal for the sound of money,
The clipped rounds, the battered profiles:
They circle my sleep like the faces of lost kin.