Extract from 'To M. W.'​

Oh, the sweet white lies lovers indulge in 
Yet she lives a scant summer warmth, 
Maybe the sun, while the symbols of her failure 
Are showing off, the skinny salesgirl smiling on her bike, 
A handful of wealthy bimbos 
Tasting oysters, caviar, and avocado 
Close to a weird underground slyness, 
An early silence aimed at comets, souls, graves 
Grab the gifts, say ‘thank you’, and dive 
Into the scent from cupboards,  
The shabby memory of your eyes, 
But don’t get mad at words, if a blue fire  
Keeps stalking you, just hide symbols,  
And wasted features, it’s nonsense  
Like frayed rags in the street,  
Vines all over the walls, 
They can’t stop you from striking 
Light, or dark 
Oh, fancy that, she moves time  
At her own rhythm, she believes in grass, 
Even in harvests, and no borders  
To her words, no sympathy 
For a riotous blue whenever the moon warns: 
You own her, but she sets a high price  
For all those colours shrieking for a bit of attention, 
Brambles, briars, red, green 
Shun them, your mind screams, 
But shut her out, my soul, 
Get up, dive into die-hard seeds, and mind, 
Heaven’s gonna hit you with jolts of stars, 
And what’s worse, you’re bound to call them life.​​

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Born in Italy some decades ago, Gabriella Garofalo fell in love with the English language aged six, and started writing poems (in Italian) at the same time. She is the author of Lo sguardo di Orfeo, L’inverno di vetro, Di altre stelle polari, Casa di erba, Blue Branches, and A Blue Soul.