Last time I saw her she was leaning on the windowsill smoking a cigarette, her dark eyes observing the silent night askance. Her hair hanged disheveled as she told me about some Buñuel movie about a nun. Had to do with a game of cards and the crown of Christ in the fire. Something about an old man using a jump rope. Brother used a belt. Images sprung to my mind in a sudden flash of nauseating light. Numb heat under the eyelids. Open, close, open, close. Still there, humid.Her eyes remained fixed on the darkness outside as she asked where I was going.
"I don't know yet."
Italy came to my mind. Leaves splayed in the narrow, barren streets; behind a small door, under a dim light, a swart man whispers in a vapid voice to the rhythm of the crackling leaves.
I ricordi saranno dei grumi d'ombra
appiattati così come vecchia brace
nel camino. Il ricordo sarà la vampa
che ancor ieri mordeva negli occhi spenti.
When I left I paused in the corridor and listened but heard nothing. The empty streets made me think of water, falling like silence.
Wonderful.
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