MORONI'S TAILOR

7 5 R M O R O N I ’ S T A I L O R P H I L L I S L E V I N Il Tagliapanni (c. 1570) giovanni battista moroni On a black cloth, a line of chalk Marks the course my scissors must follow. You follow its path, dabbing At your palette, tending to my likeness Faithfully, until stepping back into the light Taking you farther each day From the weight of your father’s toolbox: Chisels and mallet set in separate chambers, Plans translated by sweat into columns, arches, Turrets, tombs. Your unerring hand Proves you are his son, though you combine Powder and oil instead of sand and lime – And you abide by a tempo that dwells Not in the ring of steel on marble, but a bell Calling the quarter-hour, thickening the air The people of Albino move within Before dispersing, going home to evening prayer, Yielding to pigeons that occupy the square, Waves of them changing patterns at every Turn, as if design, not direction, Were all that matters. You prefer to face Each face alone: a gentleman in pink brocade 7 6 Y Standing with a sword by a ruined wall, A lady in solemn jet Whose finger keeps her place in a book of verse Written by another noble sitter (in the gray Lining of her sleeve, the layer Of lace at his wrist, my skill As well as yours resides). You would rather Alter an angle to sharpen character, Render a gaze defying decay, disarming Any of us who enter where they Live on, carrying their immaculate dignity Into our uncertain future. Bergamo is falling To strangers, the Republic divided, Even the churches are not free of blood. You lean your canvas on an easel, I stretch my fabric on a table. You dress them In the Spanish fashion, cutting darkness From darkness. So do I. Here is material fit for a man Who stays away from the clash of knives, Avoids an oath that could end in war Or the stain of exile. Today, Giovanni, I prepare the cloth: you have given My semblance a soul, done justice to my form, Shown the bare room where I reign – But see to the ruΔe at my throat So they know how far I have come. (Better To remain in Albino, beyond the noise of fame.) Aloof as a courtesan, Venice once Displayed herself to me in an alley 7 7 R Where I met a merchant selling the finest silk: Visible from the door of his little shop, An immense flag billowed on a façade Across the canal, a stone’s throw From where I stood. I paused at the same spot Later, savoring my acquisition, a weave Embroidered with silver thread. But the banner beckoned – liquid In the wind, then familiar. It was the crest Of your favorite patron, whose doublet Needed new buttons for Carnival (I saved a piece of velvet for them). When I couldn’t reach the palace on foot Or find a gondolier to row me there, That rippling emblem, mutable As flame, mutable as water, Seemed like a garment meant for a time Hereafter. Obscurity may be no more Than a phantom obstruction, my friend, An error of sight, just as a shadow May cast the shape of a chasm, Portending depth though nothing is below. Today my scissors follow the chalk, Tomorrow I will help you make your name. ...