In this one you stand
not quite against
an ancient, slanted mulberry tree in the languid attitude
of a Saint Sebastian
half armoured by your own hair hands behind your back
tied only in your mind
the arrows – nowhere to be seen – have not –
nor ever shall –drawn blood from you or marred in any way that tender flesh – the sensuous neck
the helpless collarbone the sensitive nipple the tempting hip
the soft thighs…
under a powerful spell this old archer is the one
who’s being pierced through again and again
and if you would just open your eyes you’d see him bleeding
his brittle and worn-out soul away all over the soft weeds
and the hard stones under your feet…
from Meditamondo (Coazinzola Press, 2013)
Translation by Riccardo Duranti
