The Hospital of the Innocents, Florence, by Ada Lowenthal

Facade Tondi by Andrea della Robbia (Italy) c. 1490. Photo: I, Sailko, CC BY-SA 3.0 , via Wikimedia Commons

The Hospital of the Innocents, Florence
 
Dusk, before alleys’ glint in silvered libertines,
the cylindrical window is spun by a magdalene;
 
a pillowed manger fixed upon a wheel stone, 
compact to hold il bambini alone,
 
for the unwanted or unfed, the poor or the wealthy, 
the Ospedale degli Innocenti.
 
Reeling inside a newborn or toddler swaddled in rags,
or a blanket grim from the street, or swagged
 
out on occasion, in fine linen wrappings 
as on the perfect putti hatching 
 
on the porch’s della Robbia robin’s eggs,
with their balletic arms and mummied legs.
 
Odors of shit -horse and human - from the road’s gutter ditch 
countered by the hospital’s censers and cleanliness.
 
To meet their new caretakers, starched, hooded, quiet,
brothers and sisters in Christ, purse lipped, pious,
 
marking the date and time arrived, the child’s size,
the little coverings, the sex, the colour of the eyes;
 
and, always wrapped within, a small token,
sawn in two, snapped, snipped, or broken, 
 
carefully saved and recorded
(the only evidence of maternity reported),
 
crumbs to follow for mothers to reclaim 
innocents abandoned without a name. 
 
A gold florin crisply halved upon a chain.
An amber bead threaded on a strip of grosgrain.
 
The tiniest pink hand clutching a rose, ragged at the wrist.
The crosspiece of a yellowed ivory crucifix.
 
My god, and if I had to part with mine?
What token would I leave behind?
 
A dove-gloved shard of my broken heart,
as most mothers would when torn apart?
 
Miserable metaphor! when the situation demands
something precious and palpable to lay in his hand.
 
A cross never graced my neck, nor rosary warmed my pocket. 
I wear no silks or velvets nor wrap my throat in a cameo locket.
 
No magic amulet to roll up in his tiny fist.
Really, I have nothing, nothing, nothing to gift.
 
But what pain sustained by this amputation! Soon he will be empty of my memory. 
So I will enclose half a poem, an aubade swathed in an elegy. 
 
Then when morning comes at last, my son will know
 
Ada Lowenthal 

Ada Lowenthal has written poetry for many years while working as an architect and college professor. She has a B.A. in art history and an M.Arch so unsurprisingly, many of her poems are about art and architecture. She lives in northwest Connecticut with her partner and dog. 

Hospital of the Innocents, by Filippo Brunelleschi and others (Italy) 1417-1426. Photo: Warburg, CC BY-SA 3.0 , via Wikimedia Commons