poems by Alberto Pellegatta
Bodies that want to sweat
clash against coastal perspectives.
Like pallor grows up on the terrace
when it reaches its purpose.
GIACOMO OR ON CHILDHOOD
You are right not to speak, sentences
will never leave you in peace.
Entirely in redness you depend
on our prejudices.
In any case there are no more important things
than pushing liquids out of the body.
Even the spring damages us
covered by spores. You scream
under our haughty magnolia.
They learn to fly in the middle of June,
when you can’t keep your clothes on.
You will have your favourite restaurant, shoes
and coats of envy.
Rooms become smaller
and inside fenced in clay courts
the anger of the boys runs loose.
In the yellow discomfort of grass, not a word.
The nocturnal and regretful fingers of the killer point
to sequences of ghosts that fly with their open asses
to a sweet massacre.
For some dead, the owl is a flower.
Translated by Lorenzo Mandelli
Alberto Pellegatta (1978) He is a poet and journalist from Milan (Italy). His books (Ipotesi di felicità 2017 and L’ombra della salute 2011), published in the most important Italian poetry collection, Lo Specchio Mondadori, won different literary prizes. His work has appeared in many European magazines and anthologies, including London Poetry, Erostepost, La Stampa, Nuovi argomenti, Poeti di vent’anni (Stampa 2000), Nuovissima poesia italiana (Mondadori 2004), Almanacco dello Specchio (Mondadori 2008) and elsewhere. Editorial director of Taut Editori Milan (tauteditori.it).
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