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Call them twice, bitch –
I’m white, I’m clean,
Dancing angels are no danger –
OK, I know the question, I’ve been diving into it
As naked Persephone in luminescent shadows
Dives into her moony waters:
Them their eyes –
She knows we give no nice answers,
She knows we don’t spin it nice,
Now that mothers look so dazzled
Walking to sunny afternoons with dearest daughters,
They’re holding hands, you know?
Ejit, in due time they’ll empty guns
At each other: blazing words, scorching screams –
Ejit, they asked for a loan
So she made them mortgage her soul
And now it’s time to give it back
To the water, our chief mortgagee –
Sorry, the nice little lady can’t help you,
That dyslexic light so busy splitting life from limbs,
Forcing open the blue, lashing bodies,
Yes, sure, so they traipse and choke and traipse again –
Sorry, mothers, sorry, daughters,
It’s her frantic week, simple as that –
The sky? Well, he’s fed up sick
With your cries for help, forget it,
Don’t even try to ask, hard cheese if the henchman
Wrests dead children, dead seeds, scarves, nosh or dosh –
A deranged diagram of love and whatnot –
And never forget he might bait
That ambivalent April against you.
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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 “Lo sguardo di Orfeo”; “L’inverno di vetro”; “Di altre stelle polari”; “Blue branches”, “ A Blue Soul”.
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North of Oxford 