Two Poem by Svetlana Cârstean

I remember my big belly, a pregnant woman's belly. I rested my hands on
it, I pushed people on the tram, I made my way with it, it punched a hole
in the air, I seemed stronger than he was, or maybe he was resigned and
elastic. I imagine my mama's pregnant belly that I never saw, not even in
a single photo. Her belly, with me inside it, will forever remain a secret.
And when I think of them, my belly and her belly become a pair of
identical rooms, dark, with the shades low- ered, where you can sleep
late. Two rooms in which you know every stain on the ceiling, every
bubble in the white paint, every pattern that the narrow strips of light
project on the furniture, walls, your body. It's like a dream. You move
freely in one of the rooms, but simultaneously you see the other, you can
go from one to the other without opening doors, without closing windows
behind you.

Holding mama in my arms, I cross the alley at a run. An alley of toys. An
alley that will be colored next.
She curls up across my chest, I can't even hear her breathe. Her eyes beg
me not to let go of her, not to drop her on the pavement among the
trinkets that every- one steps on.
I should say she's light.
But no, in fact she's very heavy, so I have to hunch over. She breaks my
arms.
I should say she's small, but she's large, white, round. Her soft bottom
impas- sively spreads and sticks to my ribs, makes my skin hot. Mama
clings to me. My body wrinkles in an instant. All of a sudden, I get old
when I see her lifeless skin, lacking any scent.
She's white, she's big. She's all over me.
She's the moon set in my arms.
She's cold, but I sweat.

I look at my mama. Who am I?

My mama doesn't sweat.
And she pees without a sound. For decades, she hasn't wanted to hear the
sound pee makes when it falls on the immaculate porcelain of the toilet.
First, she turns on the faucet in the sing, water flows strongly, nervously,
splashes everything around, and covers all the noises in the room. A mean
water, but clean, without a scent.
The scent is mine. I come from behind with my armpits stuck tight,
closed from inside, locked, so no one can recognize me. The soul hidden
in my armpits stinks unbearably. My mama doesn't even see me. She
sends me straight to the bath- room.
Obediently, I turn on the faucet fully. A sink full of water, that's the only
true gift I can give her. Lately, she can't stand the sound of pee that others
make. In the end, I pull the metallic chain on the toilet. The rush of water
floods noisily into our ears, cleanses and mixes smells, colors, creating
rainbows on the porce- lain, and carries them far, to a place where neither
our noses nor our eyes nor our lips can reach, where our leavings move
freely, unknown to anyone, meeting other darkness, other pipes, other
containers, other voices, other rooms. Outside our skin, bones, thoughts.

Translation from Romanian by Claudia Serea