Small Books

“The Smells” by Kira A

THE SMELL OF IRON

 
The moon asleep in the well under
The surface of the blackwater, four
Stars of steel and a badly done
Impersonation of my-
Self,
Erase and compensate
Repeated his voice from the bottom
Of the glass, you
Were shining
You said it again
In Neverland there’s no more room
For the Lost Boys
And she – the moon in the well – had
Lost her lips, removed
Her cuticles
One after the other, she had
Consumed a few names
From the wings of the doves, there
Was no more vision, no more dreams, it was
A realm of shadows, no
Lament was rising
To the ceiling, blood was coming
Back modulating itself in clots, no
Punches
Only water
A lot of water inside
The well, where the moon asleep used to
Lie
Staring at the sky
The bars
The coins
You were shining, locked outside
Collecting
The smell of iron, the colour of dice
A heart broken in a thousand valuable gems, a small
Horse, fragments of coal, your rubbish
The moon in the well was drowning, was crying, it
Couldn’t be done,
Here is what.
It couldn’t be done.

 

THE SMELL OF SMOKE

The smell of iron at 9:19 am, disgusting
Unresolved, I
Would have given you the palm of my hands, there
Was a parade of objects in hibernation, and
The wire was made of plastic
I couldn’t
Walk, Tiburtina
Railway station blew up around me, the
Upside-down lilies hanging and dangling, you
Were sewn inside
My chest and pushed
Broken
You were breaking my ribs, shrieked, I
Was thinking about your hair
The embrace
The window
The cat
On the other windowsill
(As if he knew)
And you
Moving forward in the smell
Of the smoke, expanding
And she
Keeping on, she was filling up
All the cans
Was labelling and talking and talking
Pretending she had never
Existed, she
Had been
Transfigured
Hidden inside the white, she
I miss you, you kept saying, it
Couldn’t be done.
Don’t you understand?
It couldn’t be done.
 

THE SMELL OF RUM

 
All is well except
That the wall is made
Of perspex, transparent
And her wings hit against it without
Making any sound
While
The rift she treasures on her sternum is
Cicatrizing under the sun at seven o’clock
In the morning, while
The smell of flowers is piercing through the path
Of cold and
The smell of rum, the memory of the stolen candle, twenty
Meters running under the pouring rain, inside
My ears, the city is swimming in
The dark
And it’s ours.
Dismantled.
It hurts.
The taste of the broken tooth, the
Badly stitched dream, and no need to say it:
The waiting.
While the hand is pushing, the shouts
Are drawing strange vortexes
Under the hair and
The air continuously recycled
Is ingesting
Massive amounts of
Darkness
As
You advance
Defying the butterflies
Adjusting your heel
From time to time.

THE SMELL OF FLOWERS

 
The city was turning
Into a mirror.
You were trying to move as little as possible
Fearing variations more than anything.
The essential — now —
Consisted in not disturbing.
The cold was eating your legs, your cheeks
You were calm and wanted to go away
What was left to hold you back?
Your heart was burning and nightmares were
Surrounding your hair.
You were looking down, looking
For your own ankles
You were paying attention to the echoes,
Searching for
Someone who would grab your arm
You only wanted to hear a no
— and it was not coming.
You were hoping for some
It’s not true
— and it was not coming.
The dart had been shot
Punctual and similar to bees
Poison
It was getting you sick
You were struggling to survive
While hoping, however, to die of it.
It would have never killed you.
The smell of flowers was vanishing,
The city had turned into a mirror.
Now you could only cover your eyes.
 
The Smells , a series is © Kira A
Image is © Monna Lisa Forni
KiraA

sept_06_lakeKira A was nineteen when she started to write poetry and post it on Italian websites. More than a decade later, she decided to translate her own poems to English and post them on her Tumblr blog. Her work has been published on several italian ezines and American blogs, such as UUT Poetry. Lately, a poem of hers has been published on Issue 18 of Bare Hands Poetry.
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