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The innards of desire

By Gabriella Garofalo

PROMPT — Who am I today?

My soul usually hangs out

With misbehaving seas, and impassionate skies,

The only mates she’s got, as he’s ever so busy

Looking back on a messy life where they crash losers,

And written words exude a nasty scent -

Bless you, fear, why can't you show up in her dreams?

Why can’t you feel her limbs only at nighttime?

Watch out as the mobs are up in arms,

Ready for action, and mysteries eye

Your silence with bad intent, while hissing

Only when the wind freezes limbs

Words can rise from the fields -

But other are the voices hounding you,

They play, they bet on your words lost in maze, and craze,

Who knows, maybe she’ll get another life,

The one you never wrote -

‘Cause the harvest is a heap of chilly stars,

Sure, and the birth of wombs comes

From depths of a wild stuff,

Yet the soul is an impervious ground:

Over there the seed dissolves, slightly worn out,

Yet incandescent when the hands of ancient ghouls

Rise by candlelight -

So back at base, and drop the noise,

That greedy moon that sets you up

With an Angel holding blazing splinters of light -

Where? In claustrophobic rooms, of course,

The innards of desire.

 

Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language at six, started writing poems (in Italian at the same age), and is the author of “Lo sguardo di Orfeo,” “L’inverno di vetro,” “Di altre stelle polari,” “Casa di erba,” “Blue Branches,” and “ A Blue Soul.” Gabriella writes from Ferrara, Emilia-Romagna, Italy.

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