With fallen love,
I scraped my knees. I couldn’t find the right hospital
to heal me. I don’t care for plasters or dressings, for gauze soaked in black blood.
They only mean that this is the price, such is loss. It’s sad to be needing someone,
when everything you need is right where you’ve always been, the same result
that you tried to subvert or round up. Will I need to trash this pair of black jeans?
I don’t think so. I’ll let other see where I’ve bled. After all, I’m exposed where
I’ve suffered the most – there’s rebirth even in the darkest of hells.
It’s sad to be forced to this.
A house leaking water from every wall; mold crackling in the nostrils;
tongue unable to take anymore. And you, a Michelangelo statue from the heavens,
forced to the same repetitions, to the same, jarring fiery habits, while it’s winter
in every orifice of the air and you mistake it for summer. If I slid outside, in an oblivion
of grey waters and lit up rain, would I then feel the heat hidden within such chaos?
Surely I would rinse these darkened knees and carry on towards a bridge.
I’d look down. Yes. I would look for the point where the river water springs
and I would shake the rainwater off my bones. And even looking
down, I will see the sky mirrored like a common figure, and a kind passerby
with his head severed by the umbrella
perhaps will say:
why are you on this bridge flailing?
Alessandro Vitali was born and is resident in Macerata. He has a degree in Anthropology and Social Research from the University of Siena. Previously, he studied Modern Literature at the University of Macerata. Currently, he writes poems, dramaturgies and short stories. He has also participated in some collective painting exhibitions in Rome and Palermo. He works as a teacher in Italy.