Elisa Biagini

The darkness dries up
the drops of your
breath:
...

The voice does not connect, does not
reach all the way between us
like a phon in water
instead it stops like a
...

Through the path
of the needle, with
your thread
that is already passing
...

Tight so
tight that out comes
the blood, out the
head, like
...

When you discover those long cuts,
sheets of paper or blade of grass,
you barely touch
...

Why
do you want to slip me
through the trees -
so that eyebrows
tangle,
legs
splinter,
to mirror yourself
in my skin -
soap, that washes
away cracks,
angles and hours of yours,
to suck the water
of light from my
eye.
...

You show me your wounds, as a soldier,
your battle
with another you who's consuming you
...

(Spit out by the forest
fearless, her body
round: an egg without
cracks, with a compass
for a navel.)
...

Child in the
placenta, child
under cover
in the soft
...

I translate your life
with feng shui, receipes,

I glue back your vocal cords
I tune the voice you had,
...

In the velvet shell
she carries the butter,
mama's shaken juice,
the bread, her skin,
...

Lose yourself, child
of dough and butter,
red-peel of an
...

Mended nerves
among fog, paperwork, jackets
twisted fingers
(veins and arteries intersected)
...

Dead man in the fire
his stretched skin
a burnt out pink
...