When we are
Overwhelmed by fear
And the God at our core
Has left

We become
The shoes waiting
In the chest
Of a
Paralyzed woman.


by Riri Sylvia Manor,
English by Ioana Ieronim
from Poetry and Science
An Anthology of Comtemporary Authors from Romania

The mourning is
about it never being
the way I needed
it to be.

My life itself a
disturbance of mourning

Stands in my life. Before me. The
dead girl under the bed
her skin transparent as mine

disappears. I come out
and there is no mother. Sometimes
she appears and there is no telling what
attracts her warmth. Approaches and departs.
Becomes desire,
the loot of her mourning.

Empty womb pillow. I am not
enrapt. Its’ tufts flap my fringe.
Behind me, at my sides
stands mourning.

I have only to be busy with your burial.
Sharpening flint to a pillar
pile to a mound
and turn from it.

It is gone
forever.
And I am.

By Noa Vardi, M. D.

Every year
the lilies
are so perfect
I can hardly believe

their lapped light crowding
the black,
mid-summer ponds.
Nobody could count all of them -

the muskrats swimming
among the pads and the grasses
can reach out
their muscular arms and touch

only so many, they are that
rife and wild.
But what in this world
is perfect?

I bend closer and see
how this one is clearly lopsided -
and that one wears an orange blight -
and this one is a glossy cheek

half nibbled away -
and that one is a slumped purse
full of its own
unstoppable decay.

Still, what I want in my life
is to be willing
to be dazzled -
to cast aside the weight of facts
and maybe even
to float a little
above this difficult world.
I want to believe I am looking

into the white fire of a great mystery.
I want to believe that the imperfections are nothing -
that the light is everything - that it is more than the sum
of each flawed blossom rising and fading.  And I do.

My father said,
My dear son I love you very much.

I wept,
surprised by his affection
in the midst of my daily afflictions.
This outpouring
overflowed into my heart
and spilled out with tears.

𝑾𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒎𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒄𝒉  
𝒂 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆.  
𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚’𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒂𝒓𝒚— 𝒖𝒏𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒖𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒚.
𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒇𝒖𝒄𝒌 𝒎𝒆 𝒖𝒑  
𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝑰 𝒘𝒓𝒐𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎.

Up or all away, I have said
before I'm sad and don't know
what to say. Progress is slow
and focus shifts between bad
and just a little better.

It seems unfinished, what I
meant to contribute.
It seems uncertain if it will ever be.
It seems uncertain if I'm still even me.