Pick out a piece of me- a kneecap, a brittle vein,
then a day of asking the way to undo spilled coffee,
warm yourself against things said late at night,
the underside of my chin, cold beer between your legs
a white moon, taut and urgent, no trick, no trial
just scratch the corners of your nails over my skin.
It is there where the dying begins, the goosebumps
over my ribs won’t whisper a thing the inside storm.
For now, play Yoio Cuesta softly, filling the room with
instances of us going bad, making good. Lay your fat lips,
jitterbugged with sharp-edged kisses, the voice, a saxophone
Sunday cleaning the air in between our bodies.
The insides of my wrists are ready. Let the ink flow.
About the Author:
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, HeadStuff, Waxwing, The Cortland Review and elsewhere. Her collection The Flavor of The Other is scheduled for publication in 2020 with Dos Madres Press. She is the current Poetry Editor of The Blue Nib.
