Blood Pressure

E And

sulle stesse pagine della pressione on the same pages where I write down my blood

del sangue pressure readings

osservo [ ] I observe [ ]

finché non si apre until it opens

“Che cosa c’è che non va che ti fai “What’s wrong that you make

sanguinare le mani?” your fingers bleed?”

Drops of salt ocean water on the lips



What is there apart from those flickers of memory and the rocks of the cliff behind your back and the wind?

Suddenly you are a spider and you hear a girl screaming, and a man, her dad, saying in dialect mbe chill ciá cchiu’ pajir dda ta, “they’re more scared than you are.” So she doesn’t kill you and you are allowed to keep living. His words, as you try to repeat them, come out distorted from your mouth, not because you are a spider, but because your mouth and tongue have forgotten the trajectory, the journey, the map, the shape, in one generation.

What is there apart from those flickers of memory and layers of ?

Sitting in front of the Pacific Ocean, does the water really connect us? The planes don’t connect us, he never got on a plane, she never got on a plane.

What is there apart from those flickers of memory?

Now you have to leave because the sun is setting and you’re gonna be afraid.


What did you learn?

That nipples are tougher than you thought.

That the chest can take punches.

That you never thought you would die but that knife on your throat or on the heart could have killed you.

That splinters of clarity emerge during the impossibility of speech, when words can’t exist.

That consent.

© 2020 by Marina Romani. Draft, unpublished.

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 © Marina Romani 2020