Richie Hofmann

Didn’t rain choke the animal throats of the cathedral      sputter against the roofs of the city      didn’t the flight of stairs rise up above the cobbled street didn’t the key clamor in the lock      flood the vestibule with clattering    didn’t we climb the second flight toward the miniature Allegory painted on the ceiling and touch the flat-faced girls winged      part animal who did not flinch and did not scamper

From the outset I hated the city of my ancestors. I was fearful I’d be put in the dungeon below the cathedral. The best example of the Romanesque a guide was saying in German      in English      in French where are buried eight German kings      four queens twenty-three bishops      four Holy Roman Emperors all of whom used this bishopric on the river as the seat of the kingdom. On the old gate at one end a clock told an ancient form of time. I sulked along behind my parents as the guide gave facts about the war with the Saracens      about the place where the Jews bathed about the child like me whose father the Peaceful having already produced an heir by his first marriage could marry      for love.

I have come again to the perfumed city. Houses with tiered porches, some decorated with shells. You know from the windows that the houses are from a different time. I am not to blame for what changes, though sometimes I have trouble sleeping. Between the carriage houses, there are little gardens separated by gates. Lately, I have been thinking about the gates. The one ornamented with the brass lion, I remember it was warm to the touch even in what passes here for winter. But last night, when I closed my eyes, it was not the lion that I pictured first.