Blackamoors, Villa La Pietra

I was here before the blackamoors were photographed & cataloged, when they first ran up to me & then receded into their poses, descendants of archival Hamites destined to serve their brothers & sisters in a red baroque room, each silent as an iron doorstop. Some peered out of perches askance, shining lanterns & sconces, ready to please, or eager to cast a guiding light among centuries of shadows, a patina of mystery lost in Tuscan dusk. At least their attire isn’t stitched rags. If ebony & alabaster could talk, Lord, the volumes of gossip among  gold-leafed tributes we would hear as vinegar turns back to wine, driftwood to bread. They’ve been perfectly arranged, & almost reveal whose sweat glosses their smooth skin in these rooms of rehearsal. I saw one shift slightly & blink, or maybe it was a dark hum coming from the olive grove, a feeling brought across the sea. They are not claw-footed props & furniture for drunken nights posed to grab a hat or fur coat, dressed in skeins of filigree & false gems, offering a bowl of  black grapes to each envoy or a guest holding a dagger behind his upright back.