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By Peg Boyers

To omit Venice is the unbelievable problem and the name of Peg Boyers’s latest selection of poems. the location of a number of unforgettable years of her youth, where she has again to extra usually than the other, the town of Venice is either loved and reviled by way of the audio system during this diverse and unconventionally polyphonic paintings. The voices we pay attention in those poems belong not just to characters just like the mom of Tadzio (think Death in Venice), or the spouse of Vladimir Ilych Lenin, or the Victorian prophet John Ruskin and his spouse, Effie, but in addition to wall moss, and sand, and—most especially—an authorial speaker who in 1965, at age 13, landed in Venice and not relatively recovered from the formative studies that formed her there. Ranging over a number of levels of a existence that includes adolescent heartbreak and betrayal, marriage and youngsters, friendship and loss, the publication insistently addresses the author’s wish to resolve her obsession with a spot that has imprinted itself so profoundly on her consciousness.

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Sample text

From Venice to Ravenna to Rome to Capri and back, all summer hitchhiking up and down the coasts, we relished our fleabag frugality and Via Veneto splurges, two girls gambling with their looks to get rides and winning. She swore me to secrecy, brazen but ashamed. 34 That October in Venice you arrived too late with your fatherly admonitions. Modesty bored me. I’d sworn my allegiance to excess and the sisterhood of lies. 35 Moon Walk July 20, 1969 It is midnight on earth. The Venice station, by now half dreamscape / half memory in the wake of my first breakup, is empty.

I am alone. Just in on the train from Paris, adrift, broke and fighting panic, I am midway through my sixteenth summer at home, but not, in the deserted city. Walking the circular streets across town to Castello —my old orbit— TV light spilling out windows my only guide, I look for and find the old address. trentanove dodici trentanove dodici 36 Eccolo: trentanove dodici! Little has changed. The old neighbors are still the old neighbors; I ring the bell next to their brass name plate. I ascend the stairs to the rooftop apartment where, deferring to the television, Jake and his new wife embrace me in silence.

The Venice station, by now half dreamscape / half memory in the wake of my first breakup, is empty. Night mist rising from the canals. The usual bustle of vendors and tourists gone. I am alone. Just in on the train from Paris, adrift, broke and fighting panic, I am midway through my sixteenth summer at home, but not, in the deserted city. Walking the circular streets across town to Castello —my old orbit— TV light spilling out windows my only guide, I look for and find the old address. trentanove dodici trentanove dodici 36 Eccolo: trentanove dodici!

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