burning bridges (i used to have a body once)
the neighbors are celebrating.
some wedding. or some death,
it seems they are the only
people want to remember.
I pull the curtains and I face
it is all here.
I would wrap them around me if
they were not green
but I can’t be a hypocrite – how
would their sendaline gaze
become me ?
I touch myself – everything is in
the teeth at my neck
the claws in my heart
scratches all over my legs.
fumbled hair locks
and the sounds, oh, the sounds!
everyone fears the smell, but it
is them sounds
the cruelty, the steadiness, the
of jigsaw going through the
skull – the shriek
gives me a concussion.
I am faltering.
I still have my hands – they only touched beautiful.
do you want them too ?
a ride back home
what is this movement with slow strokes
brushing past me, going forth?
it breathes loudly I can’t hear
it is softened and I shiver.
should I take it?
should I stop
doing nothing, feeling not ?
there must be a catch here, some sort of spell
that if I put my hand out, it fell
that if I search it with my eyes
it changes shape and stays behind.
could it be theirs, should I lie back
and wait it passes, hail at that ?
you say it’s mine! That I have yet
to stand up brazen, to forget
the times before when I stood up
to face their fears so mine stopped.
so be it then, I will invite
you take a walk on the inside.
do not look back, nor to the side,
or leave me waiting on the ride.
while doing so, if you don’t mind,
reach outside and shut behind.
I spread my arms apart and my arms are short,
shorter than the right measure.
Though they come in different sizes,
spaces are never enough for me.
Like every elastic, I too have limits, you see
but if you can’t, I will tell you
confined to my chest,
Instead of dangling on the tip,
like a silent earthquake.
Like every elastic, I grew tired.
this time – of smuggling in
embellished by acceptable wrapping.
I wonder what my color would be, if I threw myself up all at once
–noli me tangere–
I seek to see a predominance
Like a smoothie having a shake up
When you add something yellow
To raspberry pink.
So I decided to take off
all for the good of a high-resolution quality
with missing pixels the eye won’t see
with the shallow distinction of space that is lost and space that is gained.
I am the rain.
- Irina Grosu 2015
- Irina Grosu 2015
Irina Grosu is an artist-philosopher and a ghost writer. Her career has included managing an International Magazine, Editor of two journals and over 10 years experience in various Social Science and Communication constituencies. She is currently running a poetry blog and pursuing her artistic and philosophy endeavors.