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Stray Noses

I no longer love summer because the heat hurts the animals I belong to. I’ve been living with them nine years, day and night, hour after hour. I’ve shared with them what I denied to everyone, I’ve exposed my soul. I can’t tell my body from theirs. My skin and my eyes can’t stand the sunlight anymore. They saved me so many times. They have been my only teachers, they’ve shown me how to read the language of the eyes, to catch light everywhere, to sniff the meaning of human movements, to drive out lies. They’ve shown me how it feels to be loved. I don’t need to hide my hungry soul anymore. I can flood them with my love. They’re my guiding lights. I can’t go back anymore.

People say dogs lack our language. They speak through envy. Dogs don’t need our language at all, as they have their own. They can deeply feel love, they can touch it in the air. They can smell every feeling and sensation, they can predict every intention, they can connect every movement with a thought. They do not need to give them an abstract body of words.

Human beings could not live with one another in silence. They should be halved, they should be neither humans nor other animal beings, as they cannot touch love, they cannot smell thoughts. They’re chained to words, chained to lies. Unless they’ve been tortured enough to learn seeing.

These days our season is finally beginning. Today it’s raining. The scar on my skull aches when it rains. Water surround us on every side of the house, trotting on the skylights, gliding along the walls. We’re safe. The dogs are sleeping but still caring while Sunny lie purring on my socks on the floor. I’m drying my hair after running. Today my heron missed our date in the countryside at dawn, but the pheasants were all scattered on the fields as if evil didn’t even exist. Humans don’t like seeing through the transparency of rain.

I’ve too many curls to dry. I can’t wait to start working with my soul sisters. I can’t help feeling their words flowing under my skin. I’m not a writer. I like my curls turning into corkscrew in the rain. I’ve no culture.

It’s time to wash everything. All must be as clean as mist. Poetry is the white sheet of a large belly which gradually releases things one by one. Wrapped in the amnio of endless tiny drops whirling, you wait to come into this world. Your gaze is the midwife of an incessant birth of reality. White sways sensually in the impalpable placenta of the verb in gestation. You can go on groping, seeing white. Or let the vision be ejected toward you and turn out to be brutal in its secret substance, with all its flashes, scarrings, lightnings, glimpses of indistinct. Write. Write about the animality of being, the vitality of bodies. Write down all the energy of the day.

There is nothing more sacred than something that lives or has been alive, nothing excites me more.

The living is always Person. The tail of the lizard that flickers even orphan of its body; the surprising disproportion between the hornet and its flight; the turtle carrying his house on his back; the wingspan of a white heron showing up from nowhere in the winter sky; the crushing majesty of the cedars of Lebanon in the Parco Massari; the beating of my dog’s little heart; the amber of her eyes guarding the insect of my gaze; the bow of my Irish setter’s body when she’s about to shoot herself as an arrow in the wind; the deadly dynamic of her gallop in the wind; the wonderful machine of human body, with all its crosses of bones and joints, with the clay of its muscles; the ginko biloba with its overwhelming grandeur without conceit, with that touching embrace that overturns the flight of the roots in the air so that you never know whether it’s from the roots branching out into the ground that it springs, or from the branches rooting in the sky. All of this inspires me more than the great urban and architectural works of human genius, which are only poor copies of the masterpieces of nature.

The sunset on the chest of a dead robin, a white dove overthrown on the asphalt with her chest wide open to the sky, letting her soul fly upstream towards its spring; the death of an unknown dog and the annihilating thought of the death of those I belong to; the memory of the small red fish I buried in the graveyard’s avenue as a child; the stretched legs of my canary Cippi in death. He could gurgle and rustle like Segovia’s guitar in Recuerdos de la Alhambra. If I close my eyes I can still feel him perched on my shoulder. The air is full of warbles.

I should like to be able to properly write of quivering noses and warm furs. I should like to be able to write about nature as you see it from the height of dogs, from the childhood of playing on all fours in the meadow, jumping in huge puddles in the rain, wading through the mud, just to escape from the gross table of adults, laughing with dogs and children at at your low little table in the background. The minefield is strewn with deaf. I’m struggling to dribble educated ears to reach stray noses capable of love.

They said you have to decide what you want to become. I don’t care to succeed. I built my raft from nothing, I’m now sailing the high seas. Pigs can’t hurt me anymore. I’m sarcastic and nacked on board. They could never sink the child. I’ve always been running like a dog. I owe nothing to anyone, not even to God.

I don’t want to become. I’ve always been. I’m just poetry, you see, you can’t buy me. I’m too happy now, I’m so scared I can cry. Goodbye.

Chiara De Luca

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