This past night I found myself drowning in quicksand
the bed
kept falling to one side
and there was no safety even on the deck of the pillow
where she who thought she was sailing
towards Jerusalem
kept standing on the tips of her toes
and stretching her arms crucified like a tree
and letting the wind billow her muslin nightdress
(she has always been obsessed with ships and voyages)

this past night I was thinking
that Venice is not on the water: the sky is reflected
in the desert
(that's how a mirage works) the hot air rises
and ripples
and the light (some say) is refracted
that's how gondoliers are created
and the houses that sway back and forth

and then there are the trees that grow on the bottom
of the lagoon
and the leaves
sometimes unravel in the currents
like the waves in Evelina's hair

Translation: 2017, Matilda Colarossi