Miroslava Odalovic Poems

May as well be the well with no more wishes
But for you to look at its drought
The star too tired to wink at any more sense
The bird that does not ask about the meaning of its flight
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Wet with tears between clothespins you take them
Neatly ordering them on the wire
With thornful fingers
You take the blue towards your blood
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loading re-usable pain into the begs
of empty markets and under the eaves
bargaining some light with the passengers
I don't have the trader's eyes
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seem not to know
that caves have no door
the sad fact of having none to invent
breaks them easily at the axis of the fear
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a lock of split hair
rests on the fusion of uranium eyes
scaled for its weight
scolded for its freedom
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take me wherever you want
I am not going
the roads have left me a mark
a left out token to swear
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is a way to make the bird define the length of its flight
fearing there will be too much to cast back in what's meant to be
just poems of the past looking for the words of the future
both spelled in moments caught like treasure pearls
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with the garment clouds dressed in hues of sorrow

I saw a blade child cutting through the breath
towards a flake spilled white to be washed away with snow slides
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Never break for they give away their wings
For the thought to fly over the horizons of the blues

Never mute embrace each soul that sings
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