*
From there was born and
due to die the duty
of the son to the son of the father,
bones readied for the slaughter
his for the duty of a variation
and deviation in the seed between buttocks –
frozen at pleasure’s estuary –
the bull’s head in the study, over there
reflecting the fragment between notes
and painting, the opaque maze on the wall
like a private carousel the garden
of the virgins crouching and to my eyes
discovered
*
because the name makes room for dance,
light chipping the substance
of being two in a shape of statues,
in walking weak with justice ,
copper on beam, a defeated rain
between grates, in itself, the bones of crying
*
gathered in grains of corolla and joy
the shore of paper repeated, the bones,
to the seed you carry cupped in hands,
you reunite in yourself health, the tight,
the lightening sweetness of absolute,
derives from my open hands
making ashes and spice from paper
the fertile embrace of the dead
in my veins, the seed of reality
clenched by tongues absorbed in sounds
*
the only spice that rests
is the site of the traces,
transparency and tool
of clarity that becomes embrace,
sin burning in hands,
without distance,
your light’s odour making us
saliva spit making the blend
out of schism
*
and returns the structure, the spice,
to the shape of a vase
the privilege of constancy
to the curve of ceramics
the mapping on marble
to the blood’s harmony
to gestures that alone prepare
the ribbing of reflection,
of silk, dark signs on hands
*
the hands implode the screen
- film of elements –
patient geometry of song
spoken in the apothecary’s mouth
announcing death by
blindness – of gesture – steeped
in what is left of spice, refined
beyond song,
purity made arid and sweet
the blend not creating but calling
*
it is aridity that covers breath
the tongue’s unlifting the fatigue
of the shape that fails
in yielding to life and breath
the ritual of what is lacking
minority that precedes each act
and covers it, vases put back
into places, blood spiced
by smells
*
the space between tables
is the site of the world
“were it to yield to life, the shadow
of flesh to flesh
the empty imperfection of each distance
*
thirst is the peace of dream
and here in ritual it is given, it moulds
man’s veins, eye dying
in eye, invoking
essences, beyond the threshold,
prayers learned in the hearts of children
*
the tongue of blackbirds with clarity
resting at the border is the clash,
celebrating on wings of ruin
the charm of flight, the traces of man
*
a breath of fragments recomposes
the garden and your simple bones,
knowing this to be certain and given to joy
custom etched in death and crucifix,
“what more?”
*
smoke. essences burned as a remedy
that dissipates, being cold and
tense body; the pain of iron is other,
the blood harvested, the gait
and “in the smoke we cannot find
the first harvest, the woman’s wisdom,
the foetus who, eroded, heals man.
Burnt is the god, harvested and moulded
in the shape of a vase, there in the name
am I at rest: time, exile, sin”
*
bound to fragility are sorrows
bowed like a threshold of lovers’
hands “it was this clothing my heart
with your skin that was the golden
balm.
Knowledge of time only the light
that bows your back, inebriation
beyond an orphan’s laughter
now is the wreath of flowers
on your face
the world’s sacrilege?”
*
spice is nothingness repeated
abandonment and the obscene mass
before the colour of lashes
the eye grown dull and the courage:
“be brave still, the raven
has already rasped ashes, nourished earth”
*
the bark – not sap – of the branch
is the room of smoke,
the silhouette wrapped – precious and real -
to the root of my sorrow, the first sorrow:
“chastity vented in the body, mine;
do you remember?”
it is night that illuminates
the fire: not the other; night that
covers and nourishes with dark
the brightness and the flame.
the bark
burning in the fire
is the room of fire.
in the smoke returning
to the fire; betrayal
and guilt have the same hands:
the blood that receives them,
is suffered.
and the fire is manifest
in the bright womb
in the gesture of birth
hysterical ashes and emptiness.
“the well radiates
the satiety of the lair
do you remember?”
death illuminates the fire
Paolo Fichera was born in Sesto San Giovanni, where he lives. His works have appeared in various magazines and anthologies. Lo speziale (The Apothecary), published by LietoColle in 2005, is his first collection of poetry. Together with Mauro Daltin, since 2003 he has been chief editor of the four-month journal "PaginaZero-Letterature di frontiera" (www.rivistapaginazero.net)