Papier-mâché | Rosa Crepax
14.45
My meteorite feet sink deeper in the ground
with each conquered breath. It’s 14.45
when plaster starts cracking, vaulting
the premature dusk. Some ancient soothsayer
must have talked about this. A thunder of void
runs atop fields that fear has dried out. No one
leaves in a hurry; time is asleep, yet the city’s
on fire, and a green ice lolly helps only a bit.
16.37
The day chestnuts turn into
papier-mâché; it goes all up in flames
with a pretty flutter of winds, farm animals,
soap bubbles, and refuse. I worry about
the toothpaste I forgot to buy, and the ballerinas
trapped in their musical boxes unable to breathe.
We could stop the car, release them at once, and doze
or daze off in the rye, the melody of their metal teeth
lullabying us to peace.
17.21
We could set up the table or join a cash machine queue
or whatever people do when they’re not scared
under alien attack. You drag me, who perhaps
am papier-mâché too, into your garden
place a sceptre in my hand. Around the pond
six story trees pierce through the ceiling. My mosquito-net cape
touches the water and floats…
19.02
Let’s set up the table for real.
About the Author:
Originally from Milan Italy, Rosa Crepax lives, writes and teaches in London UK. She has a PhD from Goldsmiths University and lectures in critical and cultural studies. As well as publishing in academic journals and books, she writes poetry. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Hobart, Spoon River Poetry Review, Ghost City Review and 3:AM Magazine.