Treasure Island

Miroslava Odalovic

(Montenegro)

It’s the night


the babushka night with thousands of lunas inside
growing from a granny to a little girl’s sickle moon
cutting through the night as guilty of a night as charged
even though the stars don’t know that as yet
and keep blinking flirting with the night blamelessly

it’s this night that I found the night made of my eyes
written in a name that wants to call my name now mute
engraved in the jewelry stones of the nights I threw away
battling the night’s charges of the Moon that got insane
spread across the laughter on a fool’s paradise throne
crying dying within all in around me my tease-me nights

it’s the night that looks like stamps of all the towns I ran away from
enveloped in no special colour to make a night delivery less painfull
addressed to the last moon beam that dared touch the coats buttoned
by little moons with two tiny holes for needles to cross to the other side
to sew a different night spill silk colours unto the snarls soothe them
so that there’s nothing left at night to bark at so that the night can peacefully sleep

it’s the night when I want to love again feel again rise again
it’s the night when I’m afraid to love again feel again rise again
it’s the night without a stool I long to stand at and look at the tall windows of the night
and open to the snowflakes falling outside totally without me
because they don’t need me as much as I need them
because the night can get along without me
but I cannot cope without this night
because I must make this night a decision to both sleep and wake up
in a transparent beautiful handshake made eye spelled lid open
dainty aphorism of light

©Miroslava Odalovic

Submitted: Monday, February 06, 2012

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