Coffee, black enough to matter, April sun brushing
against the wood of the shutters, jasmine vine
coiled around the string, the promise of the star flower
still cradled in the pod. The din of love, gathering,
receding, returning. In the slaty-blue eye of the jay
up the cherry tree, the torturing green of the grass,
the numb flow of the same yesterdays and tomorrows
caught in time’s toothless mouth. Inside, something
hurling itself against the grieving bones, ready
to rewild half the earth. Who would break the spell?
Your lips, a pellet of rage, some sigh floating around,
the violent summer that will lend itself to us, only
to slip through our hungry fingers. A plump smooth
Monday around the corner and pores of paper to fill.
Clara Burghelea is a Romanian-born poet with an MFA in Poetry from Adelphi University. Recipient of the Robert Muroff Poetry Award, her poems and translations appeared in Ambit, HeadStuff, Waxwing, The Cortland Review and elsewhere. Her collection The Flavor of The Other was published in 2020 with Dos Madres Press. She is the Translation/International Poetry Editor of The Blue Nib.