The day of the dead

Down there,
at the end of the park,
just behind the cemetery,
your thighs were cold,
dense and damp
scent of dying flowers
filled the nostrils,
and in the shelter of the slight fog
the last creaking of the gates
gave voice to the silence,
and in the faded light
everything dissolved
in your underwear,
and kissing you was important.

© Copyright 2023 Mauro Giovanelli “Seventy-nine writings or thereabouts, life, love, death and the usual” – “Settantanove scritti o giù di lì, vita, amore, morte, i soliti discorsi” – 2a edizione

Translation Italian-English: Philip Mc Court.