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1 poem
by Gabriella Garofalo

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, and A Blue Soul.

A Blue Charge 3

Okay, now ask yourself where

Your fever’s voice ended up, as she wouldn’t leave

With the months you asked in—

But why you didn’t hand her over to sistrum,

Possessed maenads who only speak the body,

That foreign language only the sky can grasp,

A nice trick to shame blue into white,

And sure, you dabble a bit in that language,

But heaven is just a teen, he’s got no clue

About your whims of lost crops, your blind stares

When nestled among ancient stones

Your places keep drowsing, impervious

To skies, gales, water—

But look now, he’s yielding to wrath

While all lost words leap on food,

On barren limbs impervious like mothers—

So, your last hint to her go like this,

Stop sowing light, if heaven doesn’t care,

And dreams of a different job,

Shapes will draw near to us in a wink,

Good, evil, whatever, at least they’re not

Still stones from towers, arcades, or your first wish,

May your words never sound clipped,

As if they were scared of the unrelenting sun,

Of insects going berserk,

While young suburban matrons keep musing

Over ontology issues, think being and nothingness,

And the moon is coldly staring,

Impatient for her night shift to be over at last.

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