Each mountain has a crown
for which great kill I don’t know, but it is
bestowed by someone high
with the weight of the last day;
judgement can be seen
in this place
inside rooms in which moths
die in heaps
and flies bury in double – glazing –

Confess your snow melts too fast
Confess you’re scared of what might fall off the sky
when it’s not clouded
Confess your sleep is square
and guarded by cotton centuries;
I am afraid
someone will hammer in the nail
with a weightless hammer –

I am not dying
but my hand has touched poison.
Back to scary hallways
and rapids upside down
a presence in the cubicle
with no mirror
with a broken mirror
with one broken mirror
that I will think of again

 

Marina Dora Martino, agosto 2021