Four poems by Franca Mancinelli
one can play dead: arms spread,
the backbone for a keel, nothing
in the mind, motion
like a memory of water.
the day’s come, the wind
won’t rise. Running
between beacons and beatings—at the dock
a few meters of sheet-metal boat.
They shouted great
is God, we left
shoulder to shoulder, silent
—over our every breath
the engine starts to break into tears.
everyone in the hold, pressing
for another life the air
missing like a mother.
—Arms and legs wres...