Author: Nicola Fucigna

Every time you lift a cup, it weakens.

We aren’t whole enough.

Even the trees tonight are hollow as birds.
Even the people peel back into nothing.

There are cobwebs in the marble.
There are souls in the drivel.

It isn’t even raining.

Here in the skin the knuckles have eyes,
The hand bent back web-footed bone.

The pain stiffening to your shoulder,
You feel the limitation of wings.

We read of a miracle, incomplete:

‘I see people but they look
like trees, walking.’

There is a troy in destroy and a rearranged story.

Hell in, Hell in. Flames. Tongues. Spear-ends.
You’re going to be late for dinner if you don’t
hurry up in there. Love is not yet like a city.
Paris, Paris, you smell of sheep. Please pass
the salt, dear. Ships. Lips. Talk. Tock. Remember
how our bodies itched. We ate crisp apples
for dessert. I was the only one who ate the seeds.
Penelope pushed her Odysseus out the door.
‘Come back on your shield,’ she didn’t say.
Menelaus, Menelaus, you should have been a ’50s
businessman, and I could have screamed
at the Beatles, instead of whispering at some
wooden horse. Yes, dear. I’m right here. I’m listening.
They bit their swords to not call out to me.
Okay, dear. That’s enough. Go play with your Helens
in your room. My dear, my dear, forgive me.
Eggs are colder than wombs. You must climb out of them
alone. I’d strip you of all that beauty if I could.
It will only lead you faster to shipwrecked significance.