photo: Elena Popa
1.
do you recall
back when I crawled up inside you
for nights
fearing
the wolves howling outside
my head and your toes described
a different kind of sky
when you breathe
you set up a new trap for me
how could I have possibly written this love poem
if I hadn’t seen that you fall too
just like me
and rise back up
from an earth loop
again you inhabit a leaf until I grow tired of being upset
and I start writing
2.
sometimes I forget a vertebra inside you
you throw me earth from your gardens
through this opening
while hopping over obstacles
with the comforting alienation of a piece of paper
pinned to the sky in one corner
now I know that rolling over
is a struggle from within
that detours the fear of not finding our bodies
in the dark
I can’t forget/ no, I can’t forget the nights that leaked from our joints
onto our snow-hardened eyes
nor the falls stirred by the desire
for the apparition of he who is waiting to catch you
as the empty spot inside me
gathers your waste of air
again my death
is as old as your life
3.
I am what you say I am
with your vertebra inside me - a circle of life
inside the circle of life
a smaller circle of salt
in the salt, your footsteps
don’t hit me with earth
earth is dead
and our muscles tight
like a Queen of the Night
a mute man follows another mute man. how old are they altogether?
4.
the earth is a vowel of your name
left outside long ago
back when we used to break up skies dyed in red
with the hard pointed tip of sleep
between us there was only a piece of wood
empty on the inside
through which we blew light over the waters
and you/ how you carry me so far away
amongst living things waiting
for me to give them a name and the tamarisk flowers/
one of them touched your chest
and morning broke
5.
you don’t know when morning breaks
in my chest
that’s why I have fingernails and soul and ribs
for you to see
how I bloom inside
and wear a blooming skin
on the inside
carrying you in the morning
walking you through the dew in my chest
passing through wood
light blooms as well
6.
your face works through the wood arched over the world,
time is a strip you tear into pieces
big enough for me to tie my body to my soul
when I bleed from missing you –
a free fall, a swinging until
flesh turns to a steam
that doesn’t dissipate into the mouths of beasts
and yet the rencounter is a flame
we step into
one death poorer
(poem published in the volume "catacombe. aici totul e viu" ("catacombs. everything is alive here"), Vinea Publishing House, Bucharest, 2008, pp.63-66. English translation: Simona Sumanaru.)
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