La freccia e il cerchio
anno 3, numero 3, 2012
pp. 293-295

Antonella Anedda
Biographies

Children

I dreamt our voice: and another stronger voice which struck.
I knew it was dead and was attempting to exist and fight.
I called up the noises, those most familiar, the clashing of two chairs,
the tinkling of plates on the tray and the animals (those, fairy-tale ones)
foxes, linxes and wolves so that they would protect us.
At the least may a cat arrive, without squeals, miraculously not human

The house was perfect, yellow, clean, inside the sunshine with chandeliers
and each of its crystal drops reflected our child work
shaking from the tablecloth the fear together with the bread crumbs,
making a hem on grief, putting it on the pile of linen to be ironed.
Only in this way I believe did we learn to love what appears:
the guiltless items, a mudguard and the mud itself
if taken at a mild angle towards the sun
and the bloodless world of balconies with watered plants.

Against time we found the art of space
the precision which allows the mind to sink.

Mother- mortality

                    Poor death you are…
                                   Amelia Rosselli

Truly a poor thing you are, death
if as much you’ve let me come close to her
(and therefore to you) while she was dying
if you’ve frightened me so little
as to give me an ounce of sleep near her pillow.
A little creature you are if from childhood till today you’ve made
yourself into a hedge shaped by scissors
(now a rooster now a dog’s muzzle)
which it takes little to jump over.
[…]