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THE POEM

My grandmother’s wrinkled hands by Giovanna Nosarti
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My grandmother’s wrinkled hands

poke the fire on the eve of the feast

and are my Christmas.

A carol penetrates

the busy kitchen,

enters the soul

like a lament

invoking clemency,

saturating the dawn with a mysticism

that snatches away my innocence.

We carry on stirring

frying kneading decorating

following ancient and consolatory rituals,

which are the wisdom of women,

while with the bread dough grows

a wait pregnant with meaning.

 

(Translation by Susan Perry)

 

 

From Lo strappo nel cielo di carta (2013)

© PIERO MANNI (Lecce)

Holly. Photo Archivio Fotogramma

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