by Clara Burghelea
Something calls to me from the edge of the grass. A murmur of blades, a breathing of dew. Brown-eyed boy’s little feet toddling the ground. Giggles scratching the rosy eardrums of dawn. The blue of the morning glory staining this side of the picket fence. White paint curling into itself with intention. The Akita’s moist tongue on my cheek, rain-slicked love. The boy’s mouth stamping the air, my skin, the ankle of the day. How does one swallow this spoonful of delight, choke on its bitter-sweet coating, only to keep on living with a brave heart? Suddenly, a rustle of feathers, a chirping of cautious cardinals, brown-eyed boy and wall-eyed puppy break their joy
clouds whisper gently
it is a welcome respite-
gazing at a plane.
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, Waxwing, The Cortland Review and elsewhere. Her second poetry collection Praise the Unburied was published with Chaffinch Press in 2021. She is Review Editor of Ezra, An Online Journal of Translation.
