Must we only dream
   of wise kings who know
that rivers must flow
   peacefully
so a woman can sing
   her children to sleep
and fathers not weep
   holding them
in grief too heartbroken
   to rage
at the violence men bring
    in this age
that should be long left
   behind us?

I feel fine, now
that stoical ice
grows within me
like a tangled vine
wrapping around
inside, and outside
I'm a laughing smiling
clown upside down
on my house, and
my life, you see
this frown painted
by Courbet, realistic
as Pushkin's finest
piece of poetry.

Innocent mother,
Like a tree you brought me forth,
When you were praying for pardon
                                                   on your knees,
When unquenched fires were burning you
And the strands of life bound you
                                                    more tightly.

I was neither for you
                                         peace,
Nor the olive bough,
Nor against pain --
Sweet unbinding.
I did not understand how to bring wise answers,
Nails I nailed
                           into your palms, on the cross.

Blameless mother,
Passing mother,
Pallid light,
The thought pains me badly
And time does not give me relief.

Flavia Cosma from *Wormwood Wine

Speak to me of the wave of longing
That broke against you,
Pressuring your forehead,
Narrowing your narrow street,
Beating on your palms,
                                         America.

Your eyes remain unclosed,
Looking-glass and sea,
For the dream with claws.

Fairy bird,
arching bird,
Sweet enchantress,
Envied by throngs.

"And you who ask about me everywhere,
By now don't you know that I am death?"

Flavia Cosma from Wormwood Wine
translated by Don Wilson with the author