TRANSLATED FROM THE ROMANIAN BY IRINA CREANGĂ

POEM I

if you sleep
you lose
all the silence

                        and all the solitude
                        and all the sadness
                        and all the needs

you ignore
the city built by your mind
plans are enough
plans bring you happiness

                           without effort
                          without money
                          without disapprovals

abandon the others in your head
let the others cry for you

                                         and never go any farther than that

                                                      this is the life where movements are never new

the body has learned
to be an obedient machine
setting apart what you need
and what you need to do

the economy of movements
resignation
my habits’ whore
get under my
                           dull dull dull skin
the fragile feeling of release
given by a new city
where you are by yourself

until you realise you don’t have a lighter
once again the need for the other                       excuse me, do you have a light?
the contact                                    the anxiety

I’ve never known what the greatest illusion really is
                   to continue
to start all over again
                   to continue
to start all over again
                  to continue
                                                         to start all over again

POEM II

after you left and took the dog with you
I got a cat.
we’re in the front yard trying to make friends so the animals
can get along
when you drop him off at my place.
the strategy is
you keep the dog on a leash
I hold the cat in my arms
until they become indifferent to each other.
but you get up you go to the bathroom.
I’m left frozen holding the cat;
any movement from me or her
would set off the hunting dog.
                        I wonder, can dogs feel hatred?
thirsty. I’m thirsty.
and nearby, only your water bottle.
I don’t want to feel the traces.
coughing. I start coughing. everything dries out.
I unscrew the cap slowly.
I touch
                         the mouth of the bottle
                         with my mouth with your mouth with her mouth with his mouth
in silent doggedness
what I can say is
your dog’s teeth
did not touch the flesh of my cat.

POEM III

                                                                                                                                 give us this day the time to adapt to change and death
                                                                                                                                             and help us understand that generosity is a bait

in the faint light inside
horses are moving in a circle
pulling the treadmill
to put salt on the table.
half a year later
they are taken out of the mine.
blindness.
bullets.

the body is cold
yet the milk is warm
in stillness they’re filming the scene
of the murdered mother
nursing her young.

the waves are pushing the child
who swam through the night
to escape that wretched place.
the dangerous immigrant
no longer threatens civilization.

the earth shakes under the water,
water rises stronger,
they look down,
pluck out the fish,
and praise the gods for the food that has been laid out for them.

these news stories i’m watching and crying
it’s bad over there over here it’s
warm warmish lukewarm

they counted you in when they reported the daily new cases
when they reported the number of cases in the ICU
when they reported the deaths
one among them. and that’s it.
for me, the only one I could call father,
                                                                    who art in the ground
                                                                    I carry your name, I live in your house.
                                                                    forgive my sins,
                                                                   as I forgive your distances
                                                                   and don’t abandon me down here and deliver me from myself
                                                                   for yours is the death

*

in the morning I found everything in its place. I washed myself with the same soap. I used the same toothpaste. nothing came to an end through the night. and I was scared of falling asleep. of waking up. I turned on the computer. two windows popped up. back when I was writing those lines you were alive. the documents will continue as if no break. as if no end.

this impassibility makes my stomach turn. my stomach – the place where I felt that you were going to leave. my fiend. I look around. chairs. pillows. windows. clothes. why the hell are they all looking exactly the same?

.the stiffness of the room makes me sick. all lifeless things have survived. from now on, you too. lifeless. bodiless.

*
it takes only your image (breaking through my mind or through my heart – I don’t even know where I love you more) for the sadness to begin. this fungus of the heart or of the mind. This is the only way I can love you now – feeling you like a lump in my throat or in my heart, I don’t even know where it hurts more. I found a picture – when were we at the seaside? – most of all I remember your absence

                                                                                                                                                   a lump of longing a lump you were when
                                                                                                                                                     they put you in a bag and cemented you
                                                                                                                                                                  this destroyed my mum. this too.
                                                                                   I told her does it even matter anymore? you got out , you can’t see anymore
                                                                                                                                 that the world is a piece of shit, you got out, father,
                                                                                                                                                                                                        you got out.

Also, Read Selected Poems From Sovraliminale By Francesca Del Moro, Translated From The Italian By Patrick Williamson and published in The Antonym:

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