In the Church of Sant’Andrea, Orvieto

Twelve stone steps rise to the pulpit, 
wrapping around a granite column 
beside a crooked banister. 
On the column are ragged remains 
of a crude fresco in red and black. 
And among the figures in the fresco, 
a sharp-eyed woman, robed and hooded, 
looks down (then up) at the holy priest 
as he ascends—as if to say, 
Watch your words. I’m listening. 
On other days, however, she says, 
Don’t worry. You can do this.

In the pulpit the preacher stands 
some fourteen feet above 
the heads of the congregation, 
speaking to them from on high. 
He might as well be Juliet 
on her balcony. And maybe, 
on his better days, he expresses his love 
for them as Juliet to her Romeo.

But the one he longs for is behind him, 
painted on the side of the column, 
nodding at his every phrase. After 
the homily is done, on his way 
down those twelve stone steps, 
he kisses the fingers of his hand 
and places them on her fading lips.