Lips

PROSE POETRY My thing them. lips he King have touched Midas had into a changed spell gold. cast My everyover lips them.KingMidas changedeverything hetouched intogold.Mylips don'tknow howtogivecaresses orbites; they're condemned tochanging everytouchoftheirs into a kiss. Onceupona timethere was a princess who wantedtoridherself oflove.Shetouched her lipstoeverything, making nodistinction among surfaces, things, skin, so that noonewouldsay ofherthat shehadan inclination tokissing. If children hada fever, shetooktheir temperature bytouching their forehead withherlips.When she sewed,she kepthalfa dozen needlesat hand, tucked inthecrack between hertightened lips,as ina bloodless pincushion. Shesmoked a pipeinpublic. Playedthetrumpet inthegarden ,infront ofthestatue ofVenus. Oneday,the princess encountered a mostrepugnant creature . Ithada monstrous face, itsskinsweating streams ofviscousfluids. "Approach mylips, disgusting creature" - theprincess said- "touch them for an instant withyournauseating nape. Let'sinvent a contact, you and I, thatcould never, ever, becalleda kiss!"Thetoadimmediately changed intoa prince, who,as soonas he sawher, fellinlovewithher, andaskedherto marry him. Mylipshavethinner skinthantherest ofmy face; they're transparent so they canbecolored from theinside. Mybloodcolorsthem red.My lipsareexhibitionists; they wanttobeknown as carnivorous animals. Everything in mybodyis valve,cotyledon, vertical axialsymmetry. Right twin, left twin. Eye, ear, nostril, nipple, hand, testicle, buttock, kneecap, foot. Onlymylipsarerotated ninety degrees; one upper lip,onelower. Mylipsaretwomattresses for a bunk bed,snoozing alldaylong. Atnight I sleeponmyside, butmylipssleepontheir feet. My lipsarea snooty pair.Everyone around them hastoputupwith their whims: they turn up mynose, knit myeyebrows. Mylipsspread their moodovermyentire face. Myfaceisconstantly rearranging itself around my mouth.Volcaniceruptions, uncontainable explosions ofemotive expression shake the ground. Thedeformations ofmylipspropagate tectonically, causinggeological repercussions in everyother part ofmyface. When the fault ofmylipsmoves, it provokes aftershocks that canbefelt evenbeyond themountain chain ofmyeyebrows. Myforehead receives kinetic energy from thecontinental plates, absorbing itinparallel alpine wrinkles. I'mhappy; mylipshavehunga hammock on myface. It'ssonice tolayinthe fresh air, stretched outona smile. Translation from the Italian ByGregory Conti Tiziano Scarpa (b.1963) is the author of novels, critical essays, and aguidebook to his hometown, Venice IsaFish. In2009 his novel Stabat Mater won the prestigious Premio Strega. Hefollowed that in 2010 with another intimate novel, Le cose fondamentoli , oneof the top ten sellers for the year. Scarpa's editor atleft-leaning Einaudi describes him asone of their least politically correct young writers, irreverent and idiosyncratic. Gregory Conti teaches English atthe University of Perugia and modern Italian history in the University of Rochester program in Arezzo. His translations include fiction by Rosetta Loy, Mario Rigoni Stern, and Leonardo Sciascia and nonfiction by Sebastiano Vassalli and Alberto Angela. Heisafrequent contributor toRaritan. Editorial note: From Corpo (Einaudi, 2004), copyright 11 1 2004 byTiziano Scarpa. English translation copyright« -> 20 11by Gregory Conti. July -August 201 1i45

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