Sisters of Glass Read online

  his well-managed, well-tended furnace

  produces great fruit.

  Paolo creates himself

  in each goblet, beaker, bowl

  he blows. He cannot really see

  himself without his reflection

  in the glass’s eye.

  Uncle Giova knows nothing

  but glass; it is his past, present,

  and future—the fornica

  is his home.

  I love glass

  because I love my father.

  After Father died

  I worked like a nun

  to prepare his sacred batches.

  My father stood beside me;

  his specter guided my hand.

  “Maria, not too much manganese.”

  After we lost him,

  I turned to glass.

  Mother turned away from it.

  She shrouded goblets and mirrors;

  we drank from clay.

  At first I did not understand.

  But one day, thinking about my father,

  I held up a mirror

  and saw my mother’s eyes.

  RESTRICTED

  At fifteen all doors

  began to lock around me.

  I could hear the turning keys.

  I pounded on the walls.

  No one told me why

  I had to stay inside my room.

  Had I mistreated the glass

  I so loved? No.

  What had I done?

  Giovanna finally explained,

  “You must be a lady

  if you hope to marry a senator.”

  She eyed me then as never before,

  like men I witnessed about to duel.

  “If it is possible for you to be a lady.

  And if not, well then perhaps …”

  Vanna’s eyes shifted back

  to the sister I knew.

  “Maria, is it not enough

  that Father loved you best?”

  But before her tears

  she turned away.

  For the past several months

  I have been treated

  more delicately

  than the Doge’s chandelier.

  My complexion

  to remain powder white, hands smooth

  and clean, no ink tainting my nails.

  My virtue must be as the purest cristallo;

  I can go nowhere unchaperoned.

  All the while my sister’s silent sorrow

  thrusts glass shards into my heart.

  GIOVANNA

  My sister’s long golden locks

  glimmer in sunlight;

  how her crown of hair

  would jewel in Venice

  away from Murano’s fire and ash.

  She labors morning and night

  to brush away this island’s soot.

  When I was fourteen and Vanna

  was fifteen, we decided to play

  a trick on our older brothers,

  Marino and Paolo.

  We bound each other’s hands,

  moaned as though we had burned

  ourselves stoking the furnace.

  Marino’s tan turned to salt.

  He said, “You must stay inside

  and apply the treatment.”

  Paolo plugged his nose.

  The treatment, a muddy goop

  our maid Carlotta prepares,

  consists primarily of dung.

  But it salves wounds.

  As soon as the boys set to their tasks,

  Giovanna declared,

  “The day is too beautiful to stay inside,”

  and whisked me away faster than a fierce gale

  fuels clouds through the sky.

  Murano’s streets curve and twist

  like eels. We might have been

  lost in the smoke of all the fornicas.

  But the sun owned Murano

  that day, the sky colored like the sea,

  no rain in view. And Vanna

  seemed to know where she was going.

  I might have been afraid we would

  get in trouble for being out,

  two girls alone, but none seemed to notice.

  Merchants bartered glass to boatmen.

  Citizens swam through the streets

  with great haste, as though they fled from fire.

  Vanna serpentined me

  down an alley past the cathedral

  to a small shop. Inside, a painting

  of Venice’s Grand Canal

  hung quietly on the wall.

  Meticulous in its detail,

  but it somehow felt dead.

  The painting celebrated the holy day

  Corpus Christi and the procession

  through the Piazza San Marco,

  but it was as though the painter

  felt not the joy of his subject

  nor the joy of his creation.

  Giovanna tugged my arm.

  “They have charcoal and red chalk,

  pink paper, just like the painters use.

  I thought you might like—”

  I cut her off. “I have heard of these,

  but I have no coin.”

  She pulled a bolognini from her sleeve.

  I whispered, “Where did you get that?

  We will be robbed.”

  Vanna shook her head.

  “You worry too much, Maria.

  Select what you like.

  I will manage the rest.”

  I hugged her tight enough to crack

  her bones. “I’ll pay you back.”

  She smiled. “Yes, you will.”

  NOT MY MOTHER’S DAUGHTER

  I spend my days now

  with a woman I do not understand.

  It is as though Mother speaks French.

  She presents to me a carved wooden box

  painted with fine water lilies.

  I turn it around in the light.

  “This is exquisite,” I say.

  “Thank you, Mother.

  I will store my inks and quills

  in here!” I move to kiss her cheek.

  Mother waves me away.

  She says, “No, open it up.

  The gift is inside.”

  A silver brush and comb,

  far more expensive than any

  Giovanna has owned,

  lie like weapons

  in the velvet-lined box.

  “Vanna will love these.”

  I say aloud what I meant

  to keep in my head.

  Mother squawks at me

  like an angry goose.

  “No. They are for you.

  They were my grandmother’s.

  You alone will use them

  to brush your hair

  one hundred times each day.”

  Oh, Vanna will hate me if she sees these.

  This brush and comb belong to her

  like limbs extending from her wrist.

  Her name should be engraved

  on the handles.

  The box alone feels like mine.

  Dear Lord, why did Father

  disturb tradition?

  “Mother, this is better suited

  for Vanna,” I begin,

  but like my sister

  Mother’s ears sew closed to my voice.

  She directs me from her room.

  If Father were here,

  at least I could speak to him

  about all of this.

  Mother is like Murano’s stone wall,

  impenetrable.

  I know not

  how to reason with stone,

  only to crush it,

  and I cannot do that.

  THE BRUSH-OFF

  I sneak the box into our room

  and nestle it behind my dresses.

  How I will stroke my hair

  one hundred times

  without Giovanna noticing,

  I cannot fathom!

  Giovanna wake
s me

  just as the sun eases

  above the sea.

  She holds the painted box.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “It is a gift for you from Mother.

  I was supposed to hide it from you.”

  Giovanna looks as though

  she might sing.

  “I must thank her right away.

  The brush and comb set

  is so beautiful, exquisitely

  beautiful!”

  “No.” I grab her arm.

  “I don’t understand.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Well, you see—” I begin.

  “No, I don’t. Tell the truth.

  On the Virgin Mary’s soul,

  is the brush set yours or mine?”

  Giovanna’s eyes slay me.

  I look down. “They are mine.”

  But then quickly add,

  “But they should be yours.

  I give them to you.”

  “No.” Giovanna sinks.

  “You cannot do that.”

  She squares herself away from me,

  sets the box on my dresser,

  and her voice falls dumb.

  SECRET SKETCHINGS

  Drawing emotional pictures

  is whimsical child’s play;

  I am to pack my pencils, inks,

  and tablets away.

  All the scenes of craftsmen

  in the rain, furnace flames,

  the canal, cathedral, glass boats,

  and portraits of my family

  that Mother so adored

  she tucks under her bed

  as though she buries me

  beneath her mattress.

  “I thought it was customary

  for a girl to have talent?”

  I ask Mother as she peels

  the last sketchbook she can find

  from my arms.

  “No, Maria,” Mother corrects.

  “You should have an amusement.

  So, yes, you shall say that you draw,

  and draw the nobleman in his glory

  or other lovely things like flowers,

  but none of this art

  that looks like a man might have drawn it.”

  PAOLO AND THE COURTESAN

  Across the Grand Canal

  on the weedy side of Murano,

  Father said the mermaidens

  reign. Beautiful temptresses

  who cast out golden nets

  and snare many fish.

  Father never swam there,

  but Uncle Giova

  still fills his pockets

  with glass bracelets

  and comes home after moonrise

  more than once a week.

  Once my uncle left

  a set of jade combs

  on Giovanna’s dresser.

  Another morning

  I found a sketchbook

  filled with drawings

  of ladies in fine attire

  looking into mirrors.

  Masterful drawings

  in terms of light

  and perspective.

  I learned to draw

  in spatial dimensions

  studying this book.

  “Who drew these?”

  I asked Uncle.

  He whispered in my ear,

  “A beautiful woman.”

  I nodded.

  “A siren of the sea.”

  My ears identify the click

  of Paolo’s boots as dawn blinks

  through the window.

  He wears last night’s cloak.

  Sea perfume wafts up the stairs

  like the scent of baking bread,

  the same aroma flavoring

  the sketchbook

  Uncle bestowed upon me.

  Paolo arrives late to the furnace,

  and when he sets to leave before

  dusk, Marino stomps after him.

  “Your goblets today are shoddy.”

  They bicker like boatmen

  about to draw swords,

  loud voices in the street

  for all the neighborhood ears.

  Paolo shoves his pontil

  into Marino’s hands.

  “Do it yourself, then.”

  Paolo steers our gondola

  quickly toward the weeds,

  vanishes into the smoke

  and fog for three days.

  Our furnace produces

  no glass in Paolo’s absence;

  the orders for English betrothal goblets

  pile up like debtor’s notes.

  Paolo returns, biretta in hand,

  and kneels before Mother’s tears.

  He kisses her glove.

  “I am sorry, Mother, forgive me,

  but this is too much alone.

  Gaffing cannot be all that I do.”

  “I know, my son.”

  She pats his head.

  “I will speak with Marino.”

  LEARNING TO BE A LADY

  is like learning

  to live within a shell,

  to be a crustacean encased

  in a small white

  uncomfortable world.

  You hear the ocean

  whirl about you

  but feel not the wet

  nor ride the wave

  nor see the sun.

  Bedded on the sand,

  protected from harm

  with the other fair dainty shells,

  all safely collected

  so no damage be done

  to precious contents.

  I cannot venture outside my cage,

  cannot dirty my gloves.

  This was not how Father

  raised me, some fragile figurine

  teetering on the ledge—

  how can this be his greatest

  wish for me?

  Did he not think me capable of more?

  My cheeks red as a fornica,

  I fall to my knees.

  “Hail Mary, full of grace,

  forgive me my insolence and disrespect.

  I do not mean to be so ungrateful.

  Giovanna would shear her head

  to be in my position. I am blessed

  to be of such good fortune.”

  MY INSOLENCE STARVES MY FAMILY

  Marino’s hands wring tightly

  at the supper table;

  he never says it,

  but I know an influx of ducats

  would fuel the second furnace

  and hire additional hands.

  If I marry well, then Marino

  may take a wife

  and acquire a large dowry

  for our family.

  I will suck in my ribs

  while Mother bodices me

  into my corset.

  I will see my pinching shoes as fins.

  I announce at the table,

  “We shall settle on my proper

  suitor, all of us, before

  I turn sixteen.”

  Mother pushes back her

  plate and beaker.

  “We have much work ahead.”

  TRIAL BY FIRE: FIRST SUITOR

  “You shall learn by doing,”

  Mother determines, “for we have

  precious little time.

  The Barovier name was worth

  a lot more a few years ago.”

  Traditionally girls do not meet

  with men. Fathers arrange

  marriages, or heads of families do,

  but Marino and Uncle

  are more frenzied than netted sharks,

  and Mother and I cannot leave Murano

  to attend parties and meet noble ladies

  with eligible sons, so we break

  tradition and invite bachelors

  approved by my brothers

  into our home to visit Mother and me.

  Fastened into a puffy-sleeved

  blue velvet gown,

 
; a tiara smashed into my skull,

  I feel costumed into noble

  clothes like I should sport

  a carnival mask.

  I peer out the window;

  the gondola he arrives in

  nearly capsizes

  when the rotund man exits it.

  “Giovanna, come see,” I say,

  and then remember

  she refuses to talk to me.

  I clutch the wall as I descend

  the stairs so I do not topple

  in these tall shoes.

  I feel like I ate old fish,

  know immediately

  from his foul breath

  that I cannot marry this man.

  He coughs and squints

  with an upturned nose.

  “How old is she?”

  Mother offers,

  “Would you like to come in

  and rest your feet, Signore Debratto?”

  He stomps his cane.

  “Her! How old is she?”

  His face reddens from the exertion.

  “I am fifteen, sir,” I say.

  Mother bites her lip; apparently

  I was not to speak.

  But since I already spilled the tea,

  I ask him, “How old are you?”

  Signore Debratto huffs and grumbles.

  “Well, I told your son I needed

  a young wife,” he says to Mother.

  He lifts his cane and raises my hair

  to inspect behind my ears.

  I hide behind my mother.

  “Well, since she is so old,

  I’ll expect a larger dowry.”

  Signore Debratto wobbles in our doorway.

  “I believe you may be right, sir.

  Maria may be too mature for your tastes.”

  Mother clasps my hand

  and directs me upstairs

  as our maid Carlotta

  swiftly locks the door