December Lights

The blinds opened at night let in the moon,
who paints the dreams of someone loved.

When cars give hasty glances through the windows,
the morning sunrays join you for breakfast.

An old shop shedding a flood of glass tears
reminds you of innocent hands.

The hopes glimmering on people’ faces
roost in your mind every time you meet someone.

When a class is over, turning off the lights
is like putting unborn children to sleep.

You feed on the glow reflected in door handles, 
bells and trays, bulbs and cutlery and screens. 

On the way home, you buy a small pot
of African violets to make a little corner shine. 

Windows light up one by one into the wide night
and time falls from the sky like new snow.

As you walk slowly under the silent lamps,
you look up at the murmuring celestial bodies.

Light and its companions follow you
like a flock of singing birds in spring.

The way everything dies like falling stars
is to say they travel to other heavens. 

Put your head on the pillow, close your eyes
and turn on the chandeliers of the other world. 

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Monica Manolachi lives in Bucharest, Romania, where she teaches English and Spanish at the University of Bucharest. She is a literary translator and a poet. She has published numerous articles on contemporary poetry and prose, and is the author of Performative Identities in Contemporary Caribbean British Poetry (2017).

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