Queen of the Catacombs

After many wanderings the Queen has finally found a home thanks to the fine folks at RIC Journal…buona lettura

A heavy, humid day to September’s end an old tobacco and sweat-encrusted queen crookedly steps from the backseat of a car and shuffles across the white piazza. Middle-aged to twilight, she says to herself, I know why he’s pulled open his chest in all those pictures, his heart there. Stops. Lights a long cigarette and the filter brushes, catches upon a faint film of stubble. If only she’d die and let me get on with it. I’d finally have space to breathe.

Advertisements

2 comments

  1. Wonderful piece, Alexander. I have a strange, queer affinity with tragic, aging queens.

    1. Thank you, Joe! It’s interesting, I was crossing Piazza San Silvestro one afternoon, saw this person shambling out of a taxi and thought: ‘That’s her. The city’s last seer.’ & the Queen birthed in my head. It was instantaneous. Granted, it was a pretty intense time, but still —

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: