Mirela Ramona CIUPAG
The Last Superstition
Three spun nights
crawl on a thread-bare rug.
Nights for gypsy women
with charms for the virgins
who aren’t too old.
A decision foreign to me,
insists she is a childhood friend.
Without shame she slips
between you and me,
and she knows all of my confusions.
In your language
I will always mistake two words:
patience and passion.
The 8th Remembrance
Since yesterday, my watch
with its sharp tongues
and green strap,
stopped
and asked me
for a day off
to heal the hand
that wears it.
In a bath of stones
with rough fruit,
I use up the last
door to you.
But tomorrow,
my hair
braided with green straps
will whisper all the
street names for you.
With your shoes on
I found my way
to April
trying to keep constant
the dose of the unknown
between us.
Your skin
with the smell of burning wood
put-out in thyme tea
made the brick wall
before my window
appear to blush.
My grandmother told me
if I hear my name
called after midnight
not to answer.
And then in a dark silence
I heard you
step into my soul
with your shoes on.
Umbrella
On the first sliver
of street,
I tripped.
On the second half
of the window,
I sneezed.
On the last run
of the tram,
the rain liked me.
With the last steps
on the way home,
I crushed the first
shade of green.
And it screeched in surprise,
sending its ants
up my sandals.
The last night of spring
passed by long ago.
In fact,
I often remember your umbrella!