Standing Like That

The stone is small and irregular.

It feels like a growth

on the inside of the palm.

The muscles flex as you clutch it.

Glimpsing sideways, you realize

that you probably don’t have the aim

like the others.

So, standing like that,

you just want to eject

that thing you’re holding

at the first possible moment.

You fail to bring the gloves,

and the limestone absorbs

the drops of sweat from the hand.

It angers you,

as you don’t want it

to carry your sweat signature.

But, of course, you know

that one cannot trace the stones

back to anyone.

They belong to all.

First published in WordCity Journal, September 2021

Now You Know

I eavesdropped on you

talking in your sleep.

You spoke in a voice I didn’t know.

You mumbled things about a man

with a knife,

and the moon

that eclipses the sun.

Then came the terror.

I forced myself not to wake you up,

letting you suffer,

wherever you were.

I just listened to your breaths

growing deeper.

But you did not come back to me,

even at the apex,

with tears and sweat

all over your face.

And when your muscles relaxed,

when we embraced,

I knew now I only wanted to listen

to that other voice,

and nothing you’d verbalize

in the light of day

would ever matter.

First published in Neon, Issue 51 (Autumn 2020)

Pareidolia

I liked that for you the world was broken,

and glued back,

with the cracks exposed.

Over time, I became afraid

your shapes would evolve,

and grow menacing,

like mine.

I regret we never spoke about

what we saw in each other.

First published in Alba: A Journal of Short Poetry, Issue 37 (2022)

The Liturgy of the Flesh

In November, in Poland,
when the drivers honk like madmen,
you often fantasize
about the end of the world.
Daydreaming about love and hate,
not about forgiveness,
but about the punishment,
you imagine how fire shall consume it all,
and how all shall perish and wither away.
The sinful to pay for their disobedience,
the faithful to be rewarded for restraint.
All to be resurrected upon the end,
led by that sound of the trumpeter.

All the masses for the people long lost,
paid for with money wrapped in envelopes,
with faith that what is invested here
will bring profits there,
and that the body is not lost, but will be made anew
for those who knew how to use it well.
Luca Signorelli painted the scene,
showing how they hoist each other up,
proud of being flesh again,
and Jorie Graham gave it voice,
describing the master,
who dissects and penetrates.
But my mind cannot simply mend itself,
buried in the open flesh, like a snail.

Republished in The Ekphrastic Review, January 2021