Thursday, March 14, 2019

Gabriella Garofalo writes

Darn, so strange when trees climb up light,  
Winter shakes off men and you eating bread or dim end -  
Get on it, they too have red earth, knobbly trees,  
Naive bodies that learnt  
Just white, just seed, the old taste of life -  
Soul, you really think you play nice?  
They say no, they say you write  
Loss and amnesia too many times:  
Of course the moon reads, but dare not say  
They’ve just found some green on the road,  
She knows you listen to play it safe and be polite -  
No more fibs, she’s right:  
Years and decades the word hid exiled  
In the flimsy white of the waves,  
Water for trees and night hunters -  
Now she’s out, she meets stark bodies, raw food,  
Gives them the slip then hides  
Earthquakes, reminders and colours -  
In the attic? -  
They scare her, see, she’s used to white -  
Meanwhile you rattle on, isn’t it the electric chair  
A summer that hides from you  
Jitters and heat in the heart of the days -  
Oh well, no one minds:  
Men shake dust from tangled hair,  
Women slake stares and desire,  
The blonde smart scribe displays her limbs to the creatures,  
So foxes can rush and grip some stylish fair ladies -  
All for the best, who knows, them  
And their maddening white. 

[from A BLUE SOUL, Argotist Ebooks] 

-- Jen Mann

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