Contemporary poets from Basarabia 


The Strange Fruit

I think I can touch it.

I’ll take a step
reach out my hand
without protecting myself from the sun
stopped stone-still among the slopes.

Its gold grows out of the clear blue
its must ferments awaiting
predators’ fangs.

With a blind gesture I shield myself
from the brightness of this strange fruit
suspended among snow-covered peaks.

I think I can’t touch it.

Another mouth will take a bite
leaving lipstick traces on the crags.

Good News

I’m afraid that on the other side
rivers don’t flow
wind doesn’t blow
water doesn’t wear stone to sand
everything remembers a cruel winter
endless white night.

On the other side they wait for me
to bring them good news
but I’ll have to laugh: nothing new under the sun!
then fall into their stiff arms.

My life will slink after me
like an abyss crawling.

He Doesn’t See Her

She stands in the doorway.

Bent over manuscripts
he doesn’t see her
doesn’t hear her steps
or the swish of her vaporous train.

He should speak but he’s afraid he might upset her
and he should turn his head toward the armchair
when she curls up.
But he knows that impatience alarms her.

He drinks his tea alone
walks nervously through the room
seats himself in the other armchair.
If he dozes off he’ll have a nightmare:
her train gliding toward the door
trailing blood across the carpet.