One fraction of a second
The air dilated
The hot wheels explode.
Ultimately, you trying to giggle
With a cheese sandwich in your hand.
Soft memories travel in the air.
Their persistence lifts your body above the ground.
The spectators cover their mouth with a big handkerchief.
The camera, focused on your last breath, shows the world
A blurred image of wet bread crumbs on your lips.
Everything used to be new once.
My face, open like a fresh orange, with writing marks on it, with letters and signs, a new book coming out of the press.
My belly, new,
Ready for unborn life, squeezed between sheets with delirious happiness.
My left leg, the leg behind the eye,
(used to ground the world, to set fire to all the unnecessary sadness) new.
I sit still, looking down at you, struggling to cover the marks of the war with fabrics and ash.
My forehead pressed against the glass, cold.
I observe how you drink the tea on the other side, with precise, calculated sips.
And the day passes.
A beautiful, new cage for both of us.
(photo: Georgiana Calinescu, 2011)