Gabriella Garofalo

To M. W.

Oh, the sweet white lies lovers indulge in-
Yet she lives a scant summer warmth,
Maybe the sun, while the symbols of her failure
Are showing off, the skinny salesgirl smiling on her bike,
A handful of wealthy bimbos
Tasting oysters, caviar, and avocado
Close to a weird underground slyness,
An early silence aimed at comets, souls, graves-
Grab the gifts, say ‘thank you’, and dive
Into the scent from cupboards,
The shabby memory of your eyes,
But don’t get mad at words, if a blue fire
Keeps stalking you, just hide symbols,
And wasted features, it’s nonsense
Like frayed rags in the street,
Vines all over the walls,
They can’t stop you from striking
Light, or dark-
Oh, fancy that, she moves time
At her own rhythm, she believes in grass,
Even in harvests, and no borders
To her words, no sympathy
For a riotous blue whenever the moon warns:
You own her, but she sets a high price
For all those colours shrieking for a bit of attention,
Brambles, briars, red, green-
Shun them, your mind screams,
But shut her out, my soul,
Get up, dive into die-hard seeds, and mind,
Heaven’s gonna hit you with jolts of stars,
And what’s worse, you’re bound to call them life.

© 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 “Lo sguardo di Orfeo”; “L’inverno di vetro”; “Di altre stelle polari”; “Casa di erba”; “Blue Branches”; “ A Blue Soul”.

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