And then our hands
on our laps
run by time
ones on the others
a safe for actions.
If I can’t hold you,
curl your fingers of light,
make a fist,
[Original Italian by Chandra Livia Candiani (1952-), ‘E poi le mani’.]
The end approaches
like a sun the horizon:
pass the sunglasses.
He sings. Or calls.
He is born knowing how to sing.
To sing and to fly. He knows to leap from the branch
with faith. He holds a force
and keeps it. A driving force.
He knows it.
He belongs to it.
He makes it. Flying
he makes the sky. Singing
he makes the voice of God
the bird-catcher. On the branch
God now twitches
testing the newborn Spring
to the vault of
the flower. He prays.
He does it with colour.
He does it with light.
Even the small flame of twelve candles
casts a blinding light in a darkened room
where just a few voices flicker in shame
as they sing without clapping hands:
we wish you the best for a full healthy life
because you’ll be alone for a long time yet.
You’ll have to come find us
though we’re all around you
hiding, in silence.
But don’t be afraid:
one day the light will spread
and candles will no longer blind us
and you will feel better among brothers and sisters
with friends and family sharing your joy.
Mothers cradle their children’s head
point at me, stare at me, show me to them –
how to explain our way of love?
But children accept the world as it comes –
how to tell mine what they will face?
Humans were made on the sixth day:
God was tired
and used leftovers.
(A translation of an unpublished Italian author, Marco Capasso, for Coming Out Day.)