back home I sleep with my ears unplugged
the windows flung wide open
into the guzzling night
I remain watchful here, in the places
my people have – one by one –
trickled
into the fatty earth
I dive
into the holes they left –
deep dark enticing pools of
fresh darkness –
I eavesdrop:
the wind is picking up.
limbs sprawled across my bed I wade
breaststroke through wheezy foliage
thudding
fallen fruit
the poplars beg and bend
the lime belts out
its long-baked sweetness like a wail
the quince, shuddering, shields
velvety malformed fetuses
under paternal leaves
the thorny raspberry hisses -
a frenzy of pink lustful lips mouthing unheard
temptations
I would like to follow
in the distance thunder is rumbling.
storms circle they light up the sky
every few seconds like
an outdated camera and
in each photograph
another person's missing
the final shot a postcard of pure nature
no people just trees
thorns, rain pelting
the naked body of June, and above
the pigeons cooing scrambling on rooftops and
the incessant songbirds chirping like
the loudest of silences
mating and building nests.
*written a few days after my father’s passing in Romania.
Writer Between Worlds 