New Poetry by Irina Grosu

1/3

burning bridges (i used to have a body once)

the neighbors are celebrating.

some wedding. or some death,

it seems they are the only

moments 

people want to remember.

I pull the curtains and I face

myself:

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

its place.

the teeth at my neck

the claws in my heart

scratches all over my legs.

fumbled hair locks

devirginized eyes

and the sounds, oh, the sounds!

everyone fears the smell, but it

is them sounds

the cruelty, the steadiness, the

irreversibility

of jigsaw going through the

skull – the shriek

gives me a concussion.

I am faltering.

my hands!

I still have my hands – they only touched beautiful.

do you want them too ?

 ​

2/3

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.

3/3

the stretch

1.

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

In words

confined to my chest,

Instead of dangling on the tip,

a bottleneck

I contemplate

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.

2.

So I decided to take off

vertically

all for the good of a high-resolution quality

with missing pixels the eye won’t see

Doing away

with the shallow distinction of space that is lost and space that is gained.

I am the rain.


- 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.​