Poetry

I’m too scared to look down.

I feel; the petals hit the side of my mahogany casket

The earth invading the curves of my body

The splinters eating away at my memories

Memories that I want to forget

Of warmth of embrace

Or tickling of whisper

I keep thinking about who I was last with

But all I think about is the sensation of an arm between my wings,

Criss Crossed pairs of legs, and the smell of diluted cologne

A choked voice that hits the bellows of my stomach 

While the cloth of a suit drafts a wind between my sides

I try to push away to see a face,

anything to tell me who it was

but They hold me tighter, whispering a quiet lullaby;

My childhood song.

A song of everlasting love

telling me of a land of jubilee 

of gold and rushing water

bring me there, I beg

Holy Spirit, Let me perish,

Let me feel your palms against my eyes 

Lay me down in your embrace of bronze grass 

Please bring me to you…

Your grasp became occupied.

Reaching for the answers to my prayers,

I looked up and all I saw was iron.

Red.

Now I’m here. 

when flowers replaced my fingernails

when wood slash my spine

I hover over and realize.

It was you wasn’t it, my love.

In every house there is an orchestra 

The laundry’s song flute-like ringing when it is done 

Clapping of plates upon exit from the dishwasher 

Violins and cellos teasing whose footsteps are pouncing down the stairs            The vibrato of a showers hum 

The doors slam coming from the bottom of a brass horn 

The breaking of vases in a viola’s perfect harmony 

Sounding in the rests of silence 

Moments after the harpist’s finger begins to bleed whilst apologizing first When the conductor has stopped the forte and shouts 

The symphonies of tears, sheet music run dry 

A split breath remembering the sound of a once harmonic wedding dance 

Muffled rhythmic footsteps on a freshly vacuumed rug that missed a spot Flutes of remembrance whistling the tea she forgot to turn off                         

A violin’s bow performing in the wrong direction, stepping on toes Saxophones alluding to forgotten infatuation and the smoothness of divorce

No one ever asks for Matei.
No one ever asks for riveting poveşti
From three generations past
By un scriitor with whom I share blood
Or poezii about some sort of outlook on life
Ending in some sort of punchline that sometimes
I don’t understand
but it still makes me laugh.

No one ever asks for the smoky aroma of Mici,
Or the silver flavor of Caşcaval,
And when they see a gritty Salata de Boeuf
They wince at the peas as I eat,
Or when cottage cheese starts bubbling
Out the sides of a plăcintă cu brânză,
They gag.
I wonder why

No one ever asks for the drive along the Carpathians,
Along the Danube,
To get to the oasis in the middle of the forest
And sit in a gated yard to pick unripe cireşe
And spit out the seeds
For veverițe to nibble on
While diving into that new old-book,
That musty old-book.

They ask for Matthew,
But if they knew Matei,
Would they still ask for Matthew?

In my house,
Where I speak Romanian
But read books in English
And put Ranch on my Mici
And take hikes up a forested hill
To get a view of the waving power lines
that lead to the grey hospital,
Names embrace like brothers long estranged.