By Clara Burghelea
Grief has a sheen to it.
I close my eyes and think silver,
teeth of a zipper that won’t close.
Late, at night,
it begs me to consider its hinges,
long shadow running tongue
over the flimsy details of us,
bones chomping on absence.
I wet a finger with my tongue,
unpack the heart anew,
my face, your face,
we bruise against each other.
At dawn, the scab I keep picking,
pink as a cat’s ear, grows more skin.
About the Poet: Clara Burghelea is a Romanian-born poet. Recipient of the 2018 Robert Muroff Poetry Award, she got her MFA in Creative Writing from Adelphi University. Her poems, fiction and translations have been published in Full of Crow Press, Ambit Magazine, HeadStuff, Waxwing and elsewhere. Her collection The Flavor of The Other is scheduled for publication in 2019 with Dos Madres Press.