Poetry

Ivan Rigamonti photo

By

Clara Burghelea

The infinite banquet

Yes, the superfluity in your eyes

was there, all right.

and the opiated touch

of the spent days

was in the air.

Or else, how could I have seen the becoming

of me? Me, of so many,

all peacefully feuding, within my flesh.

And you, never greedy,

would suffice on the smile of one,

cornering the crippled others

into darkness,

as if the gods were disconsolate.

Now, you’re short of purpose

and would build me into abundance,

and I, in all my multitude,

have never once loved you less,

so welcome to my feast.

I’m every bit your mouth shall taste

and my veins shall quench your thirst,

I hope you’ll grow intoxicated with

my every cell and turn me

into your favorite poison.

The face of sadness

The asperity of the day

pulls at my skin

as my heart stays softened

by the promise of it.

There is a lurid dawn

breaking for my eyes only.

The company of a lie is unbearable

when magnified in the face of ugliness.

The only lighthearted thing is my hand,

biting at the ink.

As I climb the word spire,

I crush on the skin of whispered prayers

colliding to reach their bit of paper heaven.

There is no room left

to shed the animus in the cold water.

Clara Burghelea

Clara Burghelea is Editor at Large of Village of Crickets and an MFA candidate at Adelphi University. Her poems and fiction have been published in Peacock Journal, Full of Crow Press, Quail Bell Magazine, Ambit Magazine, The Write Launch and elsewhere. She lives in New York.