@audio-testing-area: many thanks from both of us*

"Sequence" by Ilaria Boffa

Folded back on the floor, the body 
where beams filter among
toes, lap, hips, the lips.
Torn to shreds they want it, open
a cleft in the concrete.

And it’s incomplete in its standing
a demi-something. For cut up
they want it, writhe in pain.
The agony of deprivation outruns
virtue and shame.

Do you see the escape?
My legs, pale
the spine scratching on the white.
I may only expose the wrists
how abiding the touch.

Eventually sort them in sequence.
Each ligament and nerve.
Leave nothing, nothing of us.
Trees encroach on the hills
fling the window open.

(homage to Francesca Woodman photographer 1958-1981)

Ilaria Boffa on soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/ilaria_boffa

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