Poetry
by Serena Piccoli
The sun kisses the prettiest.
It’s an Italian saying
he says.
3 euros per hour, 12 hours per day
The red-gold burning in his ears
between the toes, up the ass
Picking tomatoes 7 days a week
bent and burnt
crashing in the shack with a stroke.
The red-mud boss’ boots
pushed him down the creek at noon
before stripping his poor pendant.
The sun kisses the prettiest.
Lucky you
he said.
Appeared in Issue Spring '21
Italian
First Language(s): Italian
Second Language(s):
English,
French
Das Land Steiermark
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