Ash Wednesday

Israel and Lebanon are at war.
You, unlike the others,
don't snore.
You huddle and turn your back
and fail to warm me up
however close I may draw.

You sent me a photo of a bearded man
holding up the corpse of a scorched
eight-year-old
caught
in the war between Israel and Lebanon.
Tonight I'll turn my back,
put my knees against my mouth and
press
my toes against the hard wooden board.
I won't return your calls.

You wrote a song for me
saying I shouldn't trust you.
You played it feverishly on your guitar
down in the plush-upholstered basement,
your fingers quavering along the chords
like spider's toes.
Then you proposed over mushroom stew
at Hanu lui Manuc.
I laughed but you swore
you were in earnest.
Yet that was all before the war broke out
between Israel
and Lebanon.

Road

There's hardly any traffic on this road at this time of day. Yet she's been standing
at the zebra crossing for the past five minutes, peering at the other side.

She shifts her weight from one leg to the other. She looks to the left. She looks to the right.
She stares at the road. She counts the zebra stripes again.

She straightens up: a car is closing in at high speed. She jerks across the road.

Brakes screech on the asphalt. She doesn't stop or turn her head. She just walks on, serene;
as if she were untouchable; invisible; immaterial.

The car drives off only after about thirty seconds – long after she's left the road behind.

© Mihaela Gheorghiţă

back