Sant'Ivo alla Sapienza These are not days of grace. In the morning we wake to the half-heard sound of shouting out in the street. On the pale walls the sunlight spills careless, caresses from the paint and blistered window-frames outrageous beauty. Fixing the low gas stove with a broken lighter you start to tell me how the girls in EUR charge twenty-five euros for a hand-job. I do not believe that you know this, but I can’t unpick the lies within the lies, and so we smoke in silence and drink coffee from last night’s vodka glasses. When the day is right, we go to Sant'Ivo, which, of course, is closed except on Sunday mornings, when we sleep late. Outside in the Roman street prevaricating between the traffic and god, we hesitate. The squared curves of the courtyard beckon and repulse: o wisdom, wisdom – is this still your world? Sophy Downes A Cambridge native, Sophy lives in Rome, where she teaches archaeology by day, writes by night, and stalks the Romantic poets whenever she can.
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July 2025
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