To M. W.
by Gabriella Garofalo
So great at words tonight, my heavenly vault,
Shame it's not enough for her
To cold-shoulder the moon,
The days where winter is the heart
Of a cold light swathing her in shreds of hunger,
Silk flowers, sheltering words-
So, don't run idle in your hunt,
Don't wonder if love requires looks, and care,
As trees will never stop you
From dashing into the green,
Ever the girl crazy for shrubs,
But mind, those are the very same trees
Ready to disperse young, kiddos, a restless loss,
A hunger fair as light's gazes-
Well, at least so memories suggest,
You, hissing voices, and you, my ghastly place,
Where the deep grey of walls, and cathedrals
Shuts souls, or breaths, if blue with distress
They raise creatures, when you are tied up
With scattered meetings, words blue shelters
So that no one can creep into impervious spots-
But they got red those falling lamps, drugs, painkillers,
Texts, alerts, to be secretly sorted out,
As they hunt you down
If only you hazard demands, or skies-
So, let farewells be naked, as she looks
Deeply lost in thoughts,
Smokes and mirrors you take as answers,
And lost tales once they told you
About Orpheus' lover, and loss.
Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language at six, started writing poems (in Italian) at six and is the author of these books: Lo sguardo di Orfeo, L'inverno di vetro, Di altre stelle polari, Casa di erba, Blue Branches, A Blue Soul.
Photo by Sora Shimazaki.
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