Horizon - Issue 01

ricordi
by evening, she stands imprecise
lying on her bed. exsanguine madre immacolata
in the most foetal position, she says lasciami dormire
in dialect, in a blue nightgown, in the yellow light of a lampshade
consumed in self-immolation by her elementary, loneliest
rituals, love rituals, men rituals she says, tuo padre era uno stronzo.
i sit on a chair and watch her strained face carve a gelid statue in
my head. i love her, i say, but i don’t say it. i don’t say it
her hair in a braid like a bale of straw, irremovable, nailed
on her pillow. her back arched, exhaustion her prayer: a pennant of
piety,
prostration. she says nothing. she says nothing. i am fifteen, ashamed.
she is forty-five, her mind transmigrated, depleting
every distance from old wounds to the next. my friends
talk, ashamed, matta matta matta matta (da rinchiudere)–they say.
i say nothing. i say nothing, ashamed:
tonight. i find your obstinate
memory irrefutably
confined, crucified in the
sacrificial altar of my childhood. narrowed,
contracted to fit in my throat, to lodge
in my features: eyes, nose, lips
breasts, hips. yours, in
ductile communion.
mine, a catalogue of penitences. and
i say nothing, i say nothing.
nicola
i wait, i, yes, for yesterday’s time
in pristine tangle, this is. you move
arranging your body at the end of
my bed: murderous you tend your
memory like cyclamens, the courtesy of
your absence. rimani, rimani, or
offer, offer me, offer me words to
silence: you, sit propped up on pillows
in nonna’s house. yes? mio ricordo senz’arte:
you just arrived home from the
beach, your presence is salsedine
but your voice unappealable:
i am 5, you stand tall per strada
uncollectible: you don’t see us, you
see us as you shout for me without
a word: your immediate call
is an ascetic silence i never
listened to
(40)