Flaminia Cruciani

Flaminia Cruciani

Born in Rome, Flaminia Cruciani graduated from Rome’s Sapienza University with a thesis on “Archeology and History in the Ancient Near East”. She then went on to receive a Research Doctorate in “Oriental Archeology” from the same University.”For many years she took part in the yearly digs conducted at Ebla, in Syria, as a member of the “Italian Archeological Mission at Ebla”.She went on to study for a second degree, this time in history of art.She has also specialized in Analogical Disciplines. In 2008 Cruciani published Sorso di NottePotabile (A Sip of Night Water) with LietoColle. Lapidariumcame in 2015with Puntoacapo, and Semiotica del Male (The Semiotics of Evil) in 2016 with Ed. Campanotto. Her literary work has appeared in several Italian and foreign anthologies.

 

 

 

SPARTA

 

You don’t know how all wept quietly in Sparta

on the heap of Dorian ancestors

from the crowded sepulchres when

an inferior sky got married

the father was cursed along with his

gospel of oaths

cracked with use

swallowed into theological chaos

soiled by the equestrian circus.

The stopwatch started and we were already late

to train as warriors

the chains that had to be fixed with

hands stiffened by the cold

for us to taste the ruin of a miracle

to grow strong as an army

a woman strong as an army

one step from immortality

with a crushed orchid in her fist.

I asked for nuclear mercy,

to weep and cry “at ease!”

I would have wanted a raft of almonds

to shelter under a kiss.

But within the voice’s range I only

marched with silence, with head lowered

there was an enemy to be defeated,

it was me.

 

 

I am the artillery and the peace

 

the convent of feathers

the gaiety of terracotta

where the crucifix keeps its fast

 

I am the angel drunk with god

the bread that starves the spectres

the target blindfolded with light

 

I am the bell of air

that rings the silence

the back on which the bed rests

 

I am the prayer that washes water

the vineyard of ink

where light is harvested

I am the map for going astray

 

I am the sheer altar

where the all-powerful sits

when he repents.

 

 

 

Reason strove

 

devoured by the unrecognizable Flaminias

in the spectral descent of the disguised icon

you ploughed your hair and peddled your mouth for broom

on your rivals’ black blood

my breathless absent-minded genitals

handed down in battle

for a bitter sacrament.

Drink the warm erection you use to beat

the women jostling in my body

in my bed crowned by fire.

 

Sit down beside me, now –

make me a wheaten sign on the cross

I recite the blasphemous breviary of perdition.

I am condemned to life.

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