The beaten path is bright, empty, and silent. Mamma’s warm robotic telephonic blessings protect me like a talisman, like terrestrial incorporeal emissaries; in a local supermarket, loose peas or pearls adorn ravaged frozen shelves.


there isn’t – and there is – a row of rooms on the third floor of the building they’re demolishing on Church Street. Half-suspended residual ligaments of absent walls bend to meet scattered concrete heaps.

I do not view this scene from the single-glazed window which would have failed to properly insulate a room holding my posters and clothes for a year or two. It must have been a flat 2/1 or 2/2. Hot water in a mug would have fumed, there, and glass would have fogged up from heat, there, and I would have been just one layer away from reaching adequate warmth.

As the stranger dreams I will sit with you, and we will beautifully arrange the weeds and flowers sprouting from inspired hours at a bus stop I have not seen in a year. Our words our bouquets will tread on the irreversibly gone, the unfulfilled hypothetical, the already said; at the agonal breath of all metaphor you will touch me.

In the dream of the stranger I have departed from you to meet my father as he makes his way back home through lavic sciara, through the streets of Catania in the mid-60s in the stories he tells me

a boat is blazing the sun is sailing,

trailing, melting

one hundred years and twenty, on the lower edges of Marche I can hear Rosa bright-eyed laughing.

A hearty ancient meal; a carefully selected watermelon lost and left to rot under the sand; all the tenderness in my life I cannot remember; the unkempt tombstone of the dear stranger; the past’s undecipherable love letter.


[Emanuela Fazzio – she/her – @emafazzio]

[Photo credit: John Strachan]


The rest of the pieces from the theme of Nostalgia can be found here.

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