Rayette’s Plunge into La Fontana di Trevi

By Thomas Feeny

A graceless half twirl,
a fumbled attempt to cup
in her open palm
the million beads of water
this fountain’s sun–touched spray
daily flings into the Tuscan air

Newly deplaned and at once caught up
in Italy’s magic, she taxies straight
to the piazza, tips the cabbie,
and paying no mind to the pair of
languid carabinieri lounging nearby,
sheds all attire, tossing silk & satin
onto the fresh spring grass.

Then with arms aloft, in a world
fragrant with unknown promise,
Rayette lifts her sweet Alabama face
to the Mediterranean sun
and plunges in — a splash
to shatter the waters’ pearled surface.

The five–foot–five Calabrese
whom before God, family, and friends
she would wed in his tiny mountain town
some six months later
— a demure changeling dolled up in lace —

has sworn to his bevy of cousins
that the ivory feet of his beloved
only served to purify
the ancient fountain’s nervous waters.