Poetry- Clara Burghelea

Process of Detachment

I expect my son will let go of me when he’s five.
I will go back to just being Clara.
So ready to unspool from the erupting teeth,
the needy eyes, the extra hugs, the sticky fingers
and slip back into my old unprompted self.
The one who walked hard and spoke loudly,
flirted, craving to feel armies of ionized butterflies
prickle her backbone and warm her cheeks.
Of course, my body will stay proof of my shortcomings,
the twitching finger of the world pointing
at the curves, folds, scars. Little aware of the invisible.
The dreams of the young woman sipping
her latte at the corner of Franklyn and 7th Street,
a book of Dorianne Laux poems in her hand,
the nimble autumn breeze brushing her naked ankles.
The sleep-deprived, heavy breathing, nursing mom
who could not take her eyes of the translucent skin
of the stubborn eyelids that took two weeks to open.
In between, there is a poet who craves the particulars
of other people’s frailties so she could match her own,
nib and heart probing the wound that lurks behind ecstasy.

To This Day

loss weighs on my heart
like a tender bruise of light
the dregs of its architecture
still teaching me to love details-
the doctor visits, the IV drip nights,
the overlooked everyday conundrums
we shared on your good days
around the kitchen table covered in flowery oilcloth,
braids of white garlic and dried chili
twigs of thyme and brown laurel
spicing and feasting the roofs of our mouths,
the crumbles of the day or the untended bones.


Limenas, Half-Light

The sun dissolved
into violet loose glitter,
the buttering sea
washing my feet.
By dark, I’ll be a ghost,
blueprints in all things.

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