by Clara Burghelea
A bruise down the thigh or sinking
teeth into another flesh. A ring of sky,
or the deafening storm. Dreaming
of coffee all my life, then hives.
Obsessed with soft leeches,
choking at the sight of blood.
To have and to hold, otherwise
easy with the in-betweens. Ink
sliding on paper, then softly barren.
Lying on the floor with you,
naming all secrets, or tending
to the inner workings of my day.
Grief, hedged beneath my left breast,
like a bone. Ghosts of fingernails.
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 and elsewhere. Her collection The Flavor of The Other is scheduled for publication with Dos Madres Press. She is the current Poetry Editor of The Blue Nib. Find her online at facebook/clara.burghelea, twitter.com/ioanaclara and instagram/clara_burghelea.