Morning

You hurry to polish the shoes in the hallway
the black mud covers the white stone
the music is loud and
I think I can hear the tap dripping but
prefer to cover my head
under the blanket and pretend
I’m asleep. I choose to look away
as you leave the house and let the door open.
Not going anywhere today. I will
sit by the window with an unopened book.
The sun hidden by my expensive curtains.
The running water floods the entire house
and I’m happy
at last
drowned in my own thoughts.

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On the Ropes

My face is unblemished, up on the washing line.
Perfectly balanced, I gaze at
the small city with big eyes.
I try not to forget you although
I am asleep and barely remember your name.

My existence grows very still:
my feet have roots in a cloud,
the wind does not wind,
the rain does not rain,
the stone stays in the same place, inside
where my heart was.

The perfectly knotted ropes hold my weight
for a long time
until you
unexpectedly knock on my chest
reflected by sun.

You enter my body slamming the door;
my hands keep holding
your unsteady eyelash.
The heavy air breaks my back
as I fall.
The sky is all yours now.

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Ink on paper: Maria Butunoi