Poems by Federica Santini
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The Flood
by Federica Santini
Federica lives close to the tangled wisteria of the U.S. South. When the days get long, you can find her walking on the woodsy trails of the Tuscan archipelago and looking down at the tiny Island of the Mice from the cliffs.
The rain falls in thin filaments,
its pat-pat no less threatening
than long hands out to get you.
In the receiver the voices
mimic its even rhythm
no longer expecting an answer.
The water pools under the curb,
in the void underbelly of trucks
their drivers long gone,
it amasses in empty lots,
rolls down dirty from the ravine.
With folded fingers it pulls
on the yellow heads of the broom,
unable to break down
the supple mass of the stalks.
The Ocean sags under its weight,
its dull stomach heavy with
the knotted lump of dark wedding cake.
Down from the California Incline,
the ground plunges breathless with rain.
The great body of the city collapses
one mini-mall at a time.
A last traffic island is alive
with the gleaming eyes of the rats.
© Federica Santini
Waiting
by Federica Santini
From Canary Spring 2020
Underground the weather
holds few variations, thin draughts
that we drink up with passion.
This obscurity helps us renew,
seeds forgotten at dusk
on the hillside of yearning.
Deep down, we spread out our
fingers, we grow hands as tense
as tendrils stretched out
in no known direction but
the unbending will to return.
Our velvety arms are branches
opening wide in the dark,
the purple silk of our eyelids
is beginning to glow.
Sown, we wait.
© Federica Santini