TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN BY JOHN TAYLOR

The beginning of a ford

from one body to another this blood passes
slicing the air like a signal

in the cold it indicates the earth
of spring.

*

bare branches, an interlock
of bones in the cold

I’m recomposed by the wind
mother of the undrunk blood

who is wrapped in the fibers
of what was killed.

*

from your pillow you return:
night shatters and starts again
skull to skull
stone to stone
in the clay of the same dream
we sleep a beginning
– with neither walls nor door – of home.

*

so we became ourselves
expected guests
– steaming dishes, displaced
more and more on the whiteness
of the table, of the open walls
blank pages

invited to paradise –
we eat the silence.

*

From the waters of sleep the weight beckons
in the depths: you can put a foot down,
it’s the beginning of a ford.

*

you can also lift this
weight that seems
immeasurable

beyond your height
you can find the strength
of an ant.

*

ant in the trail that connects
anthill to food—daily
work at the devastation
beckons—legs on the way
matter arranged in this form.

*

it is a shore of seaweed and broken shells
with each step you survivors touch the ground
drink the sea
—love comes back to you wave by wave

(the storm has written this on the sand)

*

for each body a shadow
extends its life
on the pavement of the present
dances with the light.

*

go forth by returning
blind destination
– your assigned seat
facing backwards
the nausea, the beginning – riding in you
is an egg cell.

Also, read a book review of Flights by Olga Tokarczuk , written by Arya Chatterjee, and published in The Antonym 

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