House of Glass what in the name of a rose requires a respite from awesomeness and youth is the thing that nags like a disk on replay now and then the daylight of my skin. the first creases, almost invisible. then it gets thicker and deeper like killing ivy. the other day, I saw this teenager with long black hair. Looked like me twenty years ago from the back. I behold my mini-mane blond now, supposed to mollify ageing features, etc. but now it's a house at least, it used to be a fisherman's tent. strange how we become more devoted to these crumbling temples as time goes by. how, in the rashness of youth, death seemed like a joke and now it puts to shame King Lear. stay on, this flesh is permanent these gone-by locks of curly hair that I imagined turned me into a haiduk, riding, riding, riding so what, even death is supposed to be riding, the scarecrow from hell. it is the mind that becomes more beautiful, more sophisticated as bones dry and eyes drown this embellished mind has a sense of beauty yet it never sees what needs to be seen: the ki, the life, the awaiting womb. Red Rhythming she: shoulders shrouded in red shawls harrowing tune in her ears, till dawn, rhyming, rhythming, she paces. red violin, aghast on faraway seashores, the beat of beasts, the sound of sandstorms, rhyming, rhythming, in a trance. upbeat, keep up that record, a Baron de Lestac for the Lady in Red! rhyming, rhythming, the flow of willowy words. can take it no more, the tides are advancing, the red sea the thick reddening smile. rhyming, rhythming, she blows. Nineteenth Century Man Keep a little to yourself - that's what her mother told her so she blew up most of her heart instead day after day until she found the tiny corner where he'd hidden for ages: reserved and awesome like an eye that opens inside out. the lust had vanished, the tears had the consistency of clear sky she'd been a cinnamon peeler's wife for too long, the skin of things was moving upon grazing on miraculous sands there was no evidence, no sign to read, no tarot deck of cards. or maybe the subtle gaze behind soft eyelids that never learnt to shoot, the rounded angle between his elbow and thighs, the polo shirt laid like white linen on pure hearts, the words that flowed as if he was the first man to ever speak. He wore no bow or tie, he didn't even play piano yet there was all the Chopin it took to steal Georges Sand's heart all the Rilke in the Duino and all the Lou Andreas the spleen, the ache, the melodramatic she'd found inside.
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Ioana Cosma is a writer and lecturer at The University of Pitești in Romania. She has published four volumes of poetry: By the Book in Romania, In Aevo and The Psychogeography of Love with Silver Bow Publishing, and With the Vagabonds with New Meridian Arts. Her chapbook, The Book of Stephen, is forthcoming with Dancing Girl Press in Chicago and her first novel, The Ones from Afar, will be published by Institutul European Press in Romania.
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