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Clara Burghelea (3 poems)

The twenty-year marriage

is mostly about meals. Tonight, we praise

the texture of the tiger bass and the herbs

we brought from Thassos. We share a glass

of crispy, white wine and cover vast territories

 

in our conversations. You let your fingers graze

on my palm, then nibble on a valerian leaf

from my salad. Some things hang in the air like

heavy fruit. The leaving, the numbness, the silences.

 

Outside the window, guinea pig babies

squeal at the sound of our voices. It took us

months to discover their almost human need:

to sleep on our laps while being stroked.

A Revision of the Self

begins in the lines and creases

of stanzas, faces, pencil stubs.

There is an inchoate throbbing,

a blooming space asking for alteration.

 

Feels like pressing curd through cloth,

the inherent softness of the solids,

its pungent flavor, the generous juices.

To be in want for word pains the fingers.

 

Stands an accolade in the scoop of the day,

a scrim of light, then perhaps too much dark,

the foreboding thought- women do not child,

much as a poem’s backbone milks you dry.

How to manoeuvre separation

Be the woman who pulls down

the little mirror in the vizor

before you let him break you

 

by air drawing a Venn diagram

of how the two of you never overlap

but live within circles of your own.

 

Add more lipstick on the white lips,

smack them together in confidence,

allowing the Burgundy Red to blend out

 

towards the edges. Don’t blink, or better,

overdo it. He might hear your ears pop.

Here is the hand, your hand, not his,

 

feeling the throbbing in your legs

as if they put their mind to it. Press

the sore flesh through the denim

 

and while doing so, forget to breath.

The car will shrink and heartbeats

will fog up all windows and somewhere

 

in the steamy chaos, you will relent

to the numbing and the tingling

and the nauseous choking and there,

 

long seconds later, the tightly wound

bundle that is your body, will unfold

like a bat, a torn, yet pliable umbrella.

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 is scheduled for publication in 2019 with Dos Madres Press. She is the current Poetry Editor of The Blue Nib

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