I have a sonnet in the current issue of Bad Lilies, a journal I love and one of those whose whole issues are worth reading. (It’s a Petrarchan, or Italian sonnet for those keeping score.) It’s also a persona poem – a form I don’t use too often – written from the point of view of the apartment which has been put up for sale.

What may not be apparent is that this is an intensely personal poem for me, as the apartment in question belonged to my family for nearly eighty years. It was where my father was born and grew up, and where I myself lived and spent a lot of my time in Rome with my aunts, uncle and other family members who have mostly passed away. It had been the epicenter of our family for my entire life, then suddenly it was on the market in search of a buyer. I drafted this poem the final night I spent there; I hope it preserves some of the magic that permeated those walls.

I won’t go into the complexities of what happens when family members die and properties get redistributed bureaucratically to the heirs – suffice to say it’s generally not enjoyable, and often leads to disarray or outright feuds. In our case, it went fairly well. And – as we poets rationalize misfortune – I got a poem out of it.