Mariapia Quintavalla (Italy)

Here a planetoid me.

Here a planetoid me invisible blue, who does not stick, to introduce itself with back turned keyed up shut down, to then gain on itself, and in sight of good God’s monologue eye, on upright feet to present itself a peer united, and say: Yes I’m clever, I have been since kindergarten, wooden squares of life, where hands folded and feet to the side, I found myself a contemplative woman. Before the eye of good God she rejoiced then, her myopic eyes nimbly lowered, and blessing feet, to ask him, Why do you not speak and not tell us what you truly think of us, of my fate? If I’ve sinned if there near the eyes of the spring where I resided (and you lived) you think it right someone hidden introduces themself and returns, blessing us to say, You’ll pay! Glory rains on you the smaller, repeated great and fatherly God from locks to uncurled ringlets. Ask nothing anymore more, do not. Blessing is the hanging wisteria that March-evening-window-side drinks its round words prayers, of when, as a fearful child uncurled there, I recovered you in intimate wait for life.

If God loves me I write and if I do not write I die, lurch worse, and until evening clash my very modest prayers which, like morsels of bread, stay shut there nourished with not water but a stagnation that bloats and accompanies them can also kill them spoil them, make them the soft inner-bread or kernels unfragranced by evening. God’s eye admired her small and meek, a wilful child, but her shadow painted a wall there in front dug from abject dirt, pulled down by bindweed.

Believe no hurricanes of past love, marriage filled with lasting happiness with the world, arrange the cage opening background where someone entombs their eye. Go muffled, go prove yourself intact, tiny on the evening’s uproar impression, on river-pebbles on evening-gusts, outside of circle and walls - of upturned beguines, your evening.