about my mother
don't ask me why the unfathomable eye that watches me matches the washbasin above which I used to comb my hair till dawn while being immersed in my mother's inconclusive speech
I have transcribed her lips and recalled her voice without meaning as an eye fixed or the pointing finger of a god a police officer
although I stand here between a little stream and two angelic stones for how much I have been misinterpreted it delights my memory to recall those four or five sentences that I had to ponder being as I am their only judge
and from the washbasin the water of beauty and filth overflows while a man with baritone voice sings but with neither anguish nor historical remorse as an insatiable sing-song
a faithless and hopeless outcry for a love worth his life the price of no more than three shillings a month
but, where is my mother? I remember I left her seated in her hushed solitude in a beautiful garden wearing her blue flowery housedress still able to defend her pockets with the brave determination of an orphan and to break without any contrapuntal scheme other people's coherence
oh! there she is where I thought she was. In spite of death in spite of the silence imposed on her by a marble condition look how she lifts the cerulean glance of her torn face towards me and smiles blows a kiss closing the lips as if she were kissing the air.
copyright2001Erminia Passannanti |