SIGNALS Poem by Domnica Drumea
SIGNALS
I send out meaningless signals
I was born in 1910
my skin is young
criss-crossed by little purple threads
the tenderness with which you slip your hand inside
and stop my heartbeats
like in an animal sacrifice
we have nothing else but brain
we love each other in a bag sewn at the mouth
we emerge from the winter slowly
expelled
I am dying, my love
press the pillow over my face.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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8/28/2026 9:59:19 PM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
