Carmen Consoli
Miscellaneous
In Black and White
I look at a photo of my mother
she was happy, she must have been three years old
she was clutching a doll to her chest
the most coveted gift.
It was her birthday party.
A faded black and white.
I look at my mother at that time and I see
my own smile.
And to think about how many times I felt she was far away
and to think about how many times...
I would have liked to talk to her about myself and at least ask her why
the long and hostile silences and moments of carelessness punctually
I proved to be inflexible, inaccessible and proud
intimately fierce, fearing a silly rivalry.
I look at a photo of my mother
she was happy, she must have been twenty years old
hair tied up a silk scarf
and a vanished expression.
Clear glimpse of the sixties
of a radiant Catania
I examine it carefully and find
my own look.
And to think about how many times I felt her far away
and to think about how many times...
I would have liked to talk to her about myself, at least ask her why
the long and hostile silences and that arbitrary indolence
punctually
I proved to be inflexible, inaccessible and proud
intimately fierce, fearing innate rivalry.
I would have liked to talk to her about myself
at least ask her why...
I would have liked to talk to her about myself
at least ask her why...

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