In idle moments I let my mind wander into an imaginary past,
Conjectures about the child we never had:
I see us go back and forth over what to name her,
— we knew it was a girl —
Suggesting a name and then putting my lips lightly to your swollen belly
And asking the baby what it thought,
One kick for yes, two kicks for no.
Did we really call her Serafina?

I see you nursing her with that Pietà smile,
And us tucking her into our bed.
I remember wiping her nose in winter
And struggling with a swine zipper.
She would look at people and divine their inmost thoughts,
Most disconcerting for all concerned.
She learned Italian and made fun of my accent.
We let her grow wild like a flower in a meadow,
And before long bees, in the shape of boys, were buzzing around.
Was this beauty the toddler all sweaty and babbling?
Now with thick dark hair, wavy like a Gypsy’s,
And blue Nordic eyes,
A little sarcastic for someone so young,
A little impatient with fools.
Where else could she be now, except  ’pon the stage?
She does Rosalind to perfection,
And will probably marry down.
Sometimes she comes to Milan
And spares us a few minutes from shopping and theater.
I like walking with you and Serafina across the Piazza del Duomo,
Dramatically scattering the pigeons,
An old man in a white suit,
A beauty on each arm.