III Poem by Antonella Anedda

To unearth the reason for a verb
because the truth is it's not time yet
and we don't know whether to rush forward or take flight.

Make it evening, say an evening in December,
the tea chests levered up on chocks for removal
give form to the darkness
whilst the cooking flares against the wall.

These are the nights of Western peace
and flying in their rays are the cramped biographies,
the berry-dark portraits, the scrolls of names.

A different quietness shields us on one side
like a marine weight wrapped in jute
and folded carefully, with desperation.