Some things will end for sure

on their own, skin glowed and frail,
the size of mica flakes. A wild flip

of the head, moon caught up in a net
of stars, green eyes warming up skin,

kiss the cheek, wipe the mark kind of
days, blooming scars, washes of cold

through the veins, unlived life throbs,
washed down whispers of you. Other

things will sunder in ash and dust, the
blazing eyes of hurt will find fissures

and occupy them, germinating more
grief and then, could we word build

ourselves anew? This love, a contagion,
yet all we ever knew, will stand still.

Clara Burghelea is a Romanian-born poet with an MFA in Poetry from Adelphi University. Recipient of the Robert Muroff Poetry Award, her poems and translations appeared in Ambit, HeadStuff, Waxwing, The Cortland Review and elsewhere. Her collection The Flavor of The Other was published in 2020 with Dos Madres Press. She is the Translation/International Poetry Editor of The Blue Nib.

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