Blesok no. 101-102, November-December, 2015
Poetry


I Am Still Young

Denisa Duran



Memories hang inside me


    Memories hang inside me
    as heavy
    as green apples
    ridden with worms.
    Worms
    under the dirt,
    deep down
    in the earth,
    have also washed clean
    the bones
    of my people.




I level the grave


    I level the grave,
    I pluck out the weeds,
    I tug with my hands at the earth
    as if it were a blanket,
    attempting to shake them awake.




People gather around him


    The father
    would eat out of my hand
    with difficulty.
    And he died.
  
    People gather around him
    reluctantly
    worried
    lest they catch death.




Beyond repair


Translated from Romanian
into English by Florin Bican

    Beyond repair
    my body
    a shelf the doorknob knocks against day after day.




Soon Enough


    I make ready for seeing
    the doctor,
    bright streams of water broken into droplets
    tie up the lines of my body.
    In fact I make ready
    for you –
    soon enough you’ll be back
    and your kisses will skid
    on my smooth level body,
    still sick.




I am still young


    I am still young,
    I can still put up with
    dozens of bodies clinging tight on buses.
    I’ve got good bones,
    my breasts, both firm and supple,
    can still put up with being crushed.




I am still young, my love


    I am still young, my love –
    I’m still young, baby

    we could both get
    full physical exams;
    at thirty,
    most of our friends
    are sick.
    I still have time
    to ease myself upon the bed –
    the narrow iron bed –
    where they do NMR tests,
    as I’m summoning God
    to my side.




The bus crawls


    The bus crawls
    through the charred Sunday air.
    A Sunday in autumn.
    A woman gets on, tiny baby in arms,
    wedged between belly and breasts.
    Leaves are falling.
    The driver is listening to the Liturgy on the radio.




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