Tiziano Fratus - SOIL

In your
eyes you bring
your father’s suitcases,
immigrant among immigrants
in a friable land where words, often,
run the other way around. You
never learned how to read
his disorientation:
what for you
is the order
of a house
for him is the disorder
of a hotel room.
His hands can build
a chair, cut a door, raise a
wall up, if he looks in a cellar he finds
the nests of scorpions and the ancient dust of when
he grews up a baby. Your saints, on the other hand, do not
know what to stare at. There’s a portion of land
hidden at the bottom of your pockets,
to remember what has been
before, what is possible,
what exists without
the need to
a na

Translated by Eleonora Matarrese