As you
lick the blade I
notice the handle is
mauve like the flowers that
weigh down the flowering mint in pots
on the living room window sill. They claim no toll from
the breeze blowing through them as it wafts up from the river,
the whole house is scented and our nostrils struggle to tolerate the tangle
of smells onion, garlic, fennel, thyme minced on the cutting board
in the kitchen, the fragrance released by your skin
stained by two months of fickle sun, the sweat
that drops like Pollock’s paintings onto the
sheets and the mint that baptized this
adulterous story, a cutout like
those paper dolls holding
their hands.
Every now and then
you enjoy insinuating the
suspicion that your father is a Corsican
terrorist. This is why you press your tongue
on the knife blade and then the blade on my belly.

Translated by Eleonora Matarrese