Monologue

She keeps on looking behind
at the corn fields,
her blue dress follows her skin
as she walks ahead of me
into the wood.

The colour of her ink has now changed
with her
everything reminds me of home.
When she leaves, the house leaves with her,
the noise of the smashed flower pots
wakes the neighbourhood up.

I am not awake:
dream her dreams,
jump out of bed at night to go to the bathroom
and yes! look at the box of chocolates,
shining emptiness,
look in her bag
for treats, for sweets,
for a word, for something
once the talking is done.

She reminds me to close the door
in the dark, tripping over her hollow slipper
yes! I suppose
the only surprise in solitude is death.

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Photo: John Stadnicki

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No

An empty chair
Nothing more than a human
Broken in tiny fragments of light
For which nothing is
Enough
Ready
Or
Too heavy
Before the take off.

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Photo: Maria Butunoi

Thought

just as you are about to
close a window
and a bird
abruptly flutters into the room
exactly like that
she drops her wings on the lawn
and jumps back
into the sea

News

Everyone said I was
looking in the opposite direction
when the car hit me.

The sun was very tall
at the beginning of the longest day,
the birds kept flying above the spilt blood on the pavement.

The crowd gathered around,
covered me with a blanket,
put a coin on my eyelid.

The traffic stopped. The sandwich maker over the road
made the sign of the cross in the air
and came closer to watch
the phone still ringing inside
the white pocket of my white dress.

The unreturned call echoed in heaven
for a long while.

A week later, news got to you
about the girl’s body found by the railway station
in a silver box.

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Photo: John Stadnicki

The Sudden Closure

What is a heart, when all the world is dead?
The sound of letters dropped
will not revert the time.
And what’s a line without a drop of ink,
when all of us have reached the closed horizon?

I do not see my own hands, in mud,
as I am neatly seated in abyss,
nor I can talk about the summer days
(they’ve never been arranged or bricked
in any way).

What is my eye without the face I knew
(reflected on the path), if not the shadow
of a burn in your shirt.

And Dante, arh the liar him, what would he be today,
without the greatness of the sacred cloth,
if nobody had thought,
before the word, to reinvent inferno
in simple fragments of repeated hours?

The longer days make now the clouds look longer,
the thunder keeps the burning town awake,
and us,
immortals on the porch,
define the only emptiness which cannot live in books.
The sudden closure of my tiny palms.

Pockets Full of Wings

We stopped the car.
You smoked a cigarette and watched for a bit
the fast clouds bringing another rain to our promised land.
I went out and did not look back
to catch a dragonfly suspended by a thin thread
over the undisturbed waters.
I could not swim but
I quietly jumped in, following
the only spot of true colour
since my unfortunate birth.
I did not leave a trace as I walked the meadow.
The only memory sitting now on the empty chair,
the poem I’m writing to you
from the grave.
HAM MILL 24
Photograph: John Stadnicki

With the Risk of Repeating Myself

I haven’t finished speaking.
With the risk of yet repeating myself,
the struggle to remain a poet means nothing
in front of an empty bowl of soup.
No, the dark sky cannot disguise anymore
the dead bird on the driveway
and even though art, you say,
can hit me in the head from anywhere,
learning to sleep with an eye open
is not humanly possible.

I do not propose an alternative,
just saying…why not come
and visit the zoo at dawn,
take the cloth off the cage thirty seven and
see with your dilated pupil
my two heads resting on top of my neck
leaning forward.
I promise I will perfectly smile, be polite and well behaved
and even refund the tickets
with utmost consideration for your hurt feelings.

We are not in the same room,
nothing to each other.
My liberty is reflected in broken glass,
by the missed punctuation.
You talk, complain that the weather
in Britain is oppressive, I observe everything
through the cloth and enjoy
the crumbs of potato cake,
within the walls of another poem.

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Photo: Maria Butunoi