Web photo by Alessandro Grassani courtesy of The New York Times
Duomo di Milano
Early during the Covid-19 quarantine, a news photo
of the plaza fronting the Milan cathedral, the Duomo di Milano,
shows a masked man with two dogs and many birds,
maybe the same pigeons Rosemary and I saw last summer
landing on the arms of tourists to eat popcorn sold by hawkers
who work with pickpocket pals, expert at the bump-and-run
just as the pigeon-mass wheels up, bursting like a grenade
when one acute flier among them signals “Go!”
Chased by a strong germ, the local citizens
have scattered back behind doors, some nights singing
with neighbors through open windows or on balconies
above empty streets. The tourists went away
and may not return for a long time. In the chorus,
the spunky servers, barista, and chef di cucina
from the trattoria where we lingered one night.
On a plaza as wide as the church is tall, we joined sightseers
mixed with believers, moving but almost not moving, so packed,
across the paving stones. For three euros women choose scarves
draped over forearms of vendors outside pay-as-you-go toilets
alongside the cathedral, only one euro for a flush and hand gel.
Women cannot enter the Duomo with bare shoulders
even ten centuries after the marbled “failure” of mottled white,
(Oscar Wilde’s take, not mine, but I get his point),
a pile-up of steeples, flutes and flourishes, holy figures,
angels on high, Mary-tributes, stacked tip to top,
a giant gaudy birthday cake studded with candles
from which has dripped chalky coating, time-stopped,
one thousand years of prayers, and still standing,
a disco diva outside La Scala singing to the soft blue sky
when we returned in small groups to our air-conditioned bus.
—Paul Marion (2020)