3 poems from Simona Nastac

exotic landscape

Saturday. we are 7.8 billion
old dresses – I sell them on the railway track
once the eastern border of an empire with
ogival vaults and crenellated turrets

white, freshly washed, one misses a strap
another, brackish algae green,
bearly keeps its frayed hem. I sell them cheaply
it’s winter in the margins and knotholes

I also have photo frames, fake pearls, worn-out plush toys
let’s sell everything:
the parents, the fatigue, the sacral residues
let’s go to the centre, where

the orthogonal lines accelerate
like thousands of freight trains
it’s snowing in Sahara – a soft egg with its shell
incompletely calcified



the bare feet walk in your footsteps

on salt, water, and fire

lianas and bats spring out of my thigh

breasts burst with root stalks, fish and honey

three hearts are crossing your path

let’s take our offspring to kindergarten

feed them stories, tulip bulbs

the battlefield will blossom, polychrome

like a painting by van Gogh

father, give us our daily bread

the bacteria of happiness

and forgive us our trespasses

words last longer than flesh


the time to come

I light a candle

throw the match in the grass

it’s biodegradable, isn’t it? 

like the dead 

rotting more vividly 

than they lived

I look around, no father nor son

not even the holy spirit 


only an iris

Florentina blue

its leaves sharp 

like a high-carbon steel sword

About the contributor

Simona Nastac is a curator, critic and poet living in London. She studied art history and theory in Bucharest, holds an MA in Creative Curating from Goldsmiths University. She's curated exhibitions and live poetry events in London, Seoul, New York, Prague, Shanghai, Cluj and Bucharest.

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