O
day 7
That summer night,
a year after Aris left, like
a brave sober drunkard
I dared ask why. Why did
you disappear? Why did you
leave all of a sudden?
(I left because I’m young, he said,
ten years younger than you.
What do you want from me?)
Our first night replayed in my head.
‘Do you feel safe?’ he said, staring at my tears.
So many unanswered questions
and ringing Sunday mornings.
All the shooting stars draw
a path heading for the
green –
I look at my feet.
I think maybe I should have worn
a different pair of shoes.
day 14
Today, after
a run and wrinkled
cravings for Kalamata
olives, I left
the peels of my avocados
and phantasies over a trip to Spain
leaking in a big
black, garbage
bag.
Barefoot
still
wearing
my violet
white H&M running shorts
going
down the stairs. The
touch of my
skin on the steps. The taste of
my bones on the shiny wooden
floor. Beyond the heavy
building door, wind
grabbed my body. Kicked it,
made it scream.
Then
I saw Aris. Unexpected,
ghostly, unreal.
Eyes warm and frozen.
He was sitting next to the gate.
He was texting with his phone.
He lifted his chin and smiled
but I had to let go
of the garbage.
I had to
close the door.
day 28
These days I sleep
less, dumb thoughts
ovulate: heated,
salty eggs for
breakfast, fine leather
biker boots. Cooler,
nail polish
remover.
Bulky breasts as
village
church bells,
loose black locks
shutter my
thirsty, stinging,
darker nipples — like shepherds on plateaus
tending to their goats too early at
sunset. When I digest my
period cramps,
breath crumbs
like truths
I knead with my bare hands to
strawberry cheesecake. This is how I
surrender to my body:
to its language so far unknown. There’s no
migration of cells but
rather, in-house
talkers — like hens. They gather close to my cheek,
sometimes it’s my hip or my
left ankle, and lift a
red, thick curtain to
show me a toddler in a
stroller. He squeaks,
laughs and when sucks his
big toe I see he has no
teeth.
Then I read. A gig. Around you.
Your voice// your lips// move fast /
then slower / and slower / and / slower /
warming / juicy flow/
saliva / us / moaning /
brushing kissing/
…what was I doing…again?
Your stomping chest is no distance I can bear. Ache
pours into
empty
wombs, weeps
dyed words now
drying —
over the shell of this
full moon
Chiara Crisafulli juggles words, space and un-structures with no desire to restrict forms and/or genres. Her dream is to see ordinary things turning into art—plastic garbage bags, scratches of paint, glimpses of light. Before being a body of work, art is a way of observing (ourselves in) the world. Originally from Sicily (Italy), Chiara wrote her first poem at age 7 inspired by the moon, boredom and loneliness.Her academic background is in journalism, philosophy, teaching English as a second language, playwriting, travel writing and contemporary poetry writing. In the past eleven years, she has experienced living, travelling and volunteering in different countries including Ireland, Holland, Greece, the Canary Islands (Spain) and Portugal. She currently resides in Lisbon working as an interpreter and at her first experimental hybrid poetry book in English.
aglimpseof.net 