Resurrection Poem by Cristina M. Moldoveanu

In my time I looked at my hands and I understood:
I resemble my mother.
Life flows out from my joints and comes back to itself through my fingertips,
according to the season. I juggle with life, I give it and take it back.
Either I keep my hands in prayer, or I place them on the bare ground,
I am just like her.

Yorick died to me not so long ago. He was gentle and subdued in the hands of Hamlet
and it was also him looking at me around the mirror of Mary of Magdala.
From the smoke of my cigarettes, little black spiders appeared
between my fingers and I smashed them one by one...
but today they are resurrected, sadly jolting on the dirty floor.
I did not know that even they can come back to life.

Today I speak to Yorick's son, whilst through the pulse of my fingers
yesterday's sun still passes towards tomorrow:
you too, your Kindness, you are alike your father.