20 years ago I wanted to be a writer

but I moved to Italy and lost my voice.

 

Into the aching void I went

Drilling openness with openness.

I relied on my severed parts to communicate

With whatever other dangling roots I found

For months

and then years, I held my breath.

 

20 years ago I wanted to be a writer

but I moved to Italy ed ho perso la voce.

 

I never made foothold in those early years.

Had I landed then, would my heels have made a print?

I skimmed the fresh terrain -

Uneven below, my toes scraped the stoney surface of that shady pit

When I did touch down, I was under ground

I tried scaling the sticky walls but did not connect. I was alone.

 

20 anni fa volevo solo scrivere

ma sono andata in Italia ed ho perso la voce.

 

Occasional bursts of light kept me turning the corner

around and around the inner perimeter of a grave that I had dug;

that was missing its contents and missing mine.

Not even the dead rested there.

 

To the void I asked,

“What can I invite into this openness that will make me forget

that I don’t have me anymore?”

 

“Say yes”, she answered.

 

So, I went there and stayed there to experience the loss

Until the bare and vacant room gave me everything I needed.