Cristina M. Moldoveanu Poems

the small woman from the attic sits
cross-legged with her pink plastic
hair rollers for hours. her life spins
like the spool of thread on the sewing
...

The last gift from my father was B.B. King's blues on CD.
A week after my father's death my mother handed me
one of the towels she bought as a gift for the guests
coming to the funeral, as it is customary. This towel
...

a house mouse squeaks under the heavy wardrobe
crumbs are falling
from grandpa's black pipe
the ice cream got dry in the compote bowl
...

love
like a good joke about death
is born
when a little girl hangs cherries behind her ears
...

i.
Because it's New Year's Eve I bought me a pizza
and hid my sorrows munching, tasting,
remembering old days. After all, I am a big child.
...

paint me a crying eye ordered the white demon
it is not necessary said I
can't you see the seagulls flying at a distance
I can hear them cry
...

in our city they shoot fireworks again
as if to scratch God's navel
white seagulls coming from afar die over the roofs
with their beaks crisscrossed
...

beyond the circus curtain there's nothing to be found
you don't have any goods to bid on them
every dream was already booked in advance
everyone searches for a more humane world
...

it happens every time when it rains on the backstreets
you can feel through the rhythm of pending death
the blood pulse in your ears
an echo in a seashell
...

By themselves


if people are trees then they are mostly like to be pear trees
...