Nothing Was Said
Back when syringes were made of glass, with needles wide as straws...
Nothing Was Said
Back when syringes were made of glass, with needles wide as straws— their bodies stored in a metal box swallowing light and memory. A small vessel, not for relics but rites unfinished. Sometimes the latch held silence, the hush before weather splits— steam rising, glass fogged, alcohol rousing and twitching its ghost, intent on burning flesh. Mother’s hands did not tremble. Once gentle— the hands that parted my hair, now braid the rite: hold, press, a hush, fresh as bruised fruit. The nurse—composed and ordinary— waits at the bed’s foot, black dress blending into the window's shape. Father drifts, a soundless exodus through the softening door. The needle drank the flame and drew pain into syllables no tongue could shape. Drawn to skin—steel meets hunger— a verdict passed through blood’s, each prick ripened by time and memory. No protest, no plea— just wakening to silence carved like winter's mark deep in bone— ache moving corridors leaving everything unsaid. Here, warmth rises under skin where bruise and needle met— pale arc where skin dimples, winter-marked in silence. Nothing was said— and in this hush the body learned the lexicon of scars. Newly minted— coins of memory inside the box that swallowed light.
Luciano Conte, born in Formia, Italy, roots himself in tactile arts like film photography, painting, bread baking, and house building. He writes in order to probe those persistent, buried forces that shape us from beneath the surface. For him, silence is not absence but presence: a pause that resonates the loudest, like the pause in a conversation that carries more weight than words. He speaks his lines aloud while writing, tying rhythm to breath, making language a living, physical act where sound and sense fuse, just as photography captures light and shadow. He urges readers to read his work aloud to unlock layers that silent reading misses, letting the cadence shape the experience in the same way as kneading dough or laying foundation stones, where each gesture is deliberate and consequential.