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Lavanda per Viviana




Viviana watches lavender

for the first strike of colour,

waits for heads to fill

with petals. Late in ripeness

she takes her garden scissors,

severs the stalks, walks away

unable to hide the loss.




Viviana breathes lavender

in the sway

of headache or after he

lies too close

she rises to the dressing table

opens her

brown glass vial.




Viviana reflects on lavender

crumbled stamens,

the desiccation

infused in petal juices

returns her to a memory,

Twenty-four capricci

of Paganini.




Viviana becomes lavender

draws her bow

across an imaginary violin.

She can almost hear, almost

catch the Sunday morning

scent of Mamma, calm

before cathedral.



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