by Dorina Brândusa Landén
Here is the afternoon!
The sun is stuck in a hard orange peel
a bird cries
the sweetness of the syllables is a dewdrop
on a leaf.
A beautiful life.
My blood is loaded with them.
Crossroads of words
friends intolerably bright
in search of their own navels
each saying whatever they believe they should say
with a mathematical logic of reduction
wherewith odds and ends are burned.
The multiplication table is smashed into smithereens
someone is killing the sins the fears
the common places the boredom.
The knife – a heedless heart of the day
cuts the bread.
Fish and wheat. The promise.
Roads on which are returning
hungry children at home
while others eat galore
from their scarcity.
flips my clarity.
Oceans are pools of water
are splinters of flint in the forbearingly grass
winter's a village covered with flour.
the stars the traffic lights.
Buffalo and foxes are running
on a half full moon
a nightingale is filling the void
with its golden aorta.
The guard lit its lantern
the hunter recognizes
Nobody saw me crying
though my sadness rakes my temples.
Morning comes as a blow to the plexus.
Last updated May 31, 2014