"Warm Hands"

Sipping ginger tea on a Sunday afternoon,

sitting through a thousand small deaths.

Softly lighting candle after candle,

singing sweet songs under my breath.

 

The need to cry the pain away,

to smoke it away, to sweat it away,

has worn itself out by exhaustion.

There is not much left

that has not burnt itself to ashes.

 

I know it happened all over again,

that what is physical and what is not

lost their boundaries, and that I tried to control

one acting on the other.

 

Sipping ginger tea on a Sunday afternoon,

softly lighting candle after candle,

singing sweet songs under my breath,

will not make me feel at home.

 

I can do it differently now.

 

I know, oh yes I know

that nothing beautiful comes out of beauty.

It has to be convulsive,

it has to wet its ground with tears.

 

There is not much left now

that has not burnt itself to ashes.

It’s time to save what can be saved,

there is not much left

to say, to do.

 

Sipping ginger tea on a Sunday afternoon,

sitting through a thousand small deaths,

has slowly become, my friend,

sweeter than sadness.

Elisa Sabbadin