Inscripta Immanent

Di Arabella Bertola

E’ tutto scritto sul corpo, dentro il burro della carne. Morbida come seta dopo i baci. Vuota e sospesa nella solitudine. Acre e spigolosa per la paura. Squamosa e increspata di rimembranza.

E’ tutto scritto negli occhi. Nella depressione dello sguardo, dove la piega della palpebra nasconde una lacrima. Tutto riflesso nella pelle, nel reticolo dei vasi sanguigni. Una filigrana di emozioni , a volte implose in chiazze bluastre. Ematomi di sofferenza defluiti ai margini, ricacciati nel buio, in attesa di un desiderio nuovo. Vuoti che non si accorgono di essere caduti dentro se stessi. Perché, alla fine, tutto rimane scritto nel mistero della dimenticanza, quando l’emozione si irrigidisce in uno spasmo senza risposta.

I corpi non mentono. Mai. Nascono dentro ampolle di vetro. Senza pensieri. Germogliano suggendo l’aria e ricamando sorrisi nei volti di chi ci guarda. Implodono al termine della notte uterina. Sanguinano perforando il derma, crescendo al ritmo del dover essere. Cadono, si sporcano. Strisciano dentro tracce senza tempo, lasciando bave di memoria e gusci rotti.

I corpi si nutrono per ricordare la pienezza. Alfa. Omega. Divorano i propri rigurgiti di senso. Farfugliano. Alambiccano. Creano. Aspettano in fondo a un’assonanza l’avvento della parola. Ascoltano il frusciare del mondo e imparano a ricordarlo.

Poi più nulla. La morte tace di un silenzio senza tregua. Tuonano lampi sopra torbe corrusche. La crosta del cuore si spezza. La carne striata di melma si smembra. Incardinata alla sua fine, la storia si s/brana. Vaga ottusa tra i cocci di se stessa.

Dopo di noi, solo l’assenza, dove sgocciola monotoni versi il desiderio inabitato.

Inscripta Immanent

By Arabella Bertola

It is written on our bodies, inside the buttery flesh. Soft as silk after the busses. Empty and weightless in its solitude. Bitter and acerose out of fear. Scaly and furrowed with memories.

It is written in our eyes. In the cavity of a glance, where the fold of the lid shrouds a tear. Reflected on our skin, in the mesh of blood vessels. A web of emotions, at times bruised blue implosions. Livid suffering spilling to the margins, thrust into the dark, waiting to be aroused again. Black holes, unknowingly, falling into themselves. Because, in the end, everything remains inscribed in the mystery of forgetting, when feelings harden into an unresponsive spasm.

Bodies do not lie. Ever. They are born inside glass vessels. Heedless. They germinate by drinking in the air and embroidering smiles on the faces of those who watch us. Imploding at the extremity of the uterine night. They bleed, permeating the skin, growing to the rhythm of having to be. They fall, soil themselves. They slither along timeless trails, leaving spittle-like memories and broken shells.

Bodies nurture themselves to remember the fullness. Alpha. Omega. They devour their own purged sense. They stammer. They distill. They create. They wait for the advent of a word at the end of a rhyme. They listen to the rustling of the world and learn to remember it.

Then, nothing more. Death is infinitely silent. Lighting sounds over the glittering earth. The heart’s crust breaks. The mud tethered flesh strips apart. Pivoted to its end, the story de/composes. It roams, unwitting, among its own ruins.

And after us, the absence alone, where the monotonous verses of uninhabited desire trickle.

Translation ©Matilda Colarossi

Arabella Bertola, writer, translator, teacher is a Friend in translation: https://paralleltexts.wordpress.com/found-in-translation/

Inscripta Immanent was first published on http://svolgimentoblog.com/antologia-in-inglese/

Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

4 thoughts on “#International Women’s Day/ Inscripta Immanent by Arabella Bertola

    • Hi Tania! There is absolutely no difference: I chose the word busses because it reminded me of the poetry of my youth, and because the word kisses is so bland, so overused…I also like it when the reader is forced to think, to go to the dictionary, even if this means making them think of riding buses! 🙂

      Like

  1. Many ‘busses’ to all of you for reading my prose poem so carefully! 🙂
    Long life to #ParallelTexts, a wonderful and unique blog I am so proud to be a contributor of!
    And all thanks to our wonderful host Mati!

    Liked by 1 person

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