The Romantic Period by Ian Cappelli

The Romantic Period

by Ian Cappelli

Was it for years so clear to them? Once

Laying to me fogged like frost flecked frigid ponds

Laying deep within a kaleidoscope of withdrawn exchanges,

Exchanged for so long


My parents can only French kiss in a museum

I’ve seen them hold hands in the Louvre and the Met

Framed and nailed

And hung like genitalia

Castrated and gelled

And jarred next to Napoleon Bonaparte’s


Their passion: paintings

Dried, set,


Placed somewhere amongst the Roman or Romantic ages


Displayed beside (the other) vestiges


And with that thought I felt, again, infantile,

Yet also older and at funerals

Like the time we killed the moon’s face

In elementary school.

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