Her Embroideries

By | 2 February 2001

He was the shadow of the deep bed.
He was very beautiful, and as always
there was something perfect,
as though I were his cousin.
On the map he had shown me
a forest, but there was no such forest,
hence the lies, the discomfiture,
and the rest — the manor steeped
in the odours of freshly ploughed
earth, shops rife with Trieste dialect.
And his messages ended with vows
like, “Believe me, I am always
at your side.” It is impossible
to relate what or how he played,
the sudden modulations that
I could not grasp. I felt at such times
that only my body was riding,
yet I said the loveliest things.
He awoke with the violence
of the sensation, so that I was forced
to fasten with pins. His sisters again
donned their sombre mourning.
Even the sea-birds lost their way.
And then the moon rose and shed
a different light. Listen how he
dreams, how he weeps!

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