Bio Note: A native of Siena, Italy, I live and write in a pink Victorian located in Atlanta, GA. My writing reflects my duality and suspension between two languages and cultures. My recent poetry has appeared in The Ocotillo Review, Plath Profiles, and VIA, Voices in Italian Americana among others.
I went down, not on your arm at least a million stairs twelve floors and the void on each step as we went, you always a little ahead. You finished your drink at the bottom, plastic cup in your hand emptied of mine, the heat coiling up, sirens screeching.
Full House ATL
Rainwater amasses behind the ill-painted benches, the underpasses conjoin bulging knots of despair. The long city of tents gleams blue under the slanted downpour, beyond faded billboards the tower is ablaze in the gray glare of rain. The brown mass of Grady burns fast with renewed life, toxic with water and light. Rain pours over the deserted milestones down on the Olympics’ remains, it pools on the great expanse of the malls. On the skin it’s acidic and thin. The world is full. We drive out unawares.
The glare on the water pushes you through the small snake of the beach tightly coiled at your feet. A scent of pine needles heightens the sun, cruel golden mouth that swallows the day. Leaves twisted in intricate shapes, skin twitching in sudden cool shadows as the narrow eye beckons with dull, pounding chant: across the high arch the air tingles with pain, viscous room where no one ever enters. Mud glues you down, slick door left ajar to the past: and all you do is sink. A sudden ray hurts your eyes, turned away from the twirls and graffitied marks: you’re standing still, but all your friends are dead. You lift your eyes: the air vibrates with light.
©2021 Federica Santini
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