The room, like a womb. Everything pulses-
the budding jasmine on the window sill,
the January gust through the laced curtains,
the flickering flame of the Ikea berry candle.
Inside my body, stones. Mute like wide terrain.
Your palm, I imagine, wise and cushioned,
reaches through my face,
across tissues and foul blood,
looking for purpose.
My heart stumbles over harsh syllables.
The stones start flaring into huge bleached space
where I can coil like wounded snake
and hide till something learns to shift anew.
Clara Burghelea is a Romanian-born poet. Recipient of the 2018 Robert Muroff Poetry Award, she got her MFA in Creative Writing from Adelphi University. Her poems, fiction and translations have been published in Full of Crow Press, Ambit Magazine, HeadStuff, Waxwing and elsewhere. Her collection The Flavor of The Other is scheduled for publication in 2019 with Dos Madres Press.