Who should we be if not ribbons of grass
peeking through our grand parents’ wet soil,
earth spreading the morning’s flesh apart,
moving its dark tongue like a razor across each horizon.
Our vision eventually faded into distance,
leaving our eyes as portals oozing sunlight
the color our skin used to be.
At this time of day, stars cling to our teeth,
our bones have been eaten by shadows.
Eventually we’ll disappear—a lingering scent
rising behind the Nistru that threatens
to rejoin Romania,
sing her songs, or
holster her weapons.
Morning makes the dead cry.
Our memories are stirred like warm glasses of tea,
lemon rinds swirling within the sweet way
our children’s thirst has finally been quenched.
Who should we be, if not many pieces of grass
peeling the light of day from crusted, brown flesh
no one remembers?
Where are our children,
the old ones we hid in barns and shallow ditches?
It is morning.
Everyone’s star is sinking,
the grass moist from tears.
The communist party was outlawed in early spring.
They congregate behind the rivers, paint new flags
and have become the horizon.
Their smiles are terribly dangerous.
There is still blood beneath their fingernails.
They watch for our children;
they splinter our grave stones into pebbles,
fill the potholes so our roads are smooth
and shoot our songs
right out of the morning sky.
Tovli Simiryan is an award-winning writer and poet living in Ohio with her husband, Yosif. The family came to America as refugees from Moldova in 1992. Her poetry, short stories and essays have appeared in a variety of literary magazines throughout North America and the middle-east.
|< Prev||Next >|