Every morning I unmother a shred of me,
the crook of the arm where their heads
rested, the gooey eyes that fell in love
with dimples and fat rolls, the stiches
above my pubic hair, a wrinkle or two,
one vertical stretch on my back, shall keep
the shivers the tip of your forefinger left,
these grey roots my women friends stare at,
the noise in my mind that keeps me from
feeding all wounds, the way an avocado
slips its skin, ripe with joy, only to lay
its green flesh to the toasted slice of rye.
Instead, give me this sweet darkness oozing
into my veins like pine honey, at times I take
it for ink, working its way out of my mouth, could
be still the Chow-Chow’s tongue on my coffee mug.
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, Waxwing, The Cortland Review and elsewhere. Her second poetry collection Praise the Unburied was published with Chaffinch Press in 2021. She is Review Editor of Ezra, An Online Journal of Translation.
Angel Rust 