By turns

A. Cristina Emanuela Dascălu

Best Submission, Poetry

 

I was cutting onion for a salad, it is interesting

How thoughts close in, sneaking in on you when

You least expect them, catching you unprepared

Wholly unarmed, a target

For the heavy feelings they carry with them

Like a kitbag crowded with dreams . . .

This clear thought came to me in plain day

Through oniony tears, I know

Why I sounded so clear-cut, so detached, so infatuated with myself

Like a queen with her crown,

I could see MySelf undressing MySelf

Hanging MySelf in the hallstand of silence

Covering my words with the tangible air

Plunged in the mattress of now

Like 100-year-old trees in the ground

Pushed away by the tantalizing perfume

By the soaring sound of your voice,

By this odd number of days.