Tag Archives: Clara Burghelea

Self-medicating with St. John’s wort

This is youish, says the man, his finger drawing on my wrist. My skin instantly tingles altogether. He pulls back, watery eyes glued to my face. Stomach shrinks, nausea fills up the nostrils, tongue numb with bile. I cling to … Continue reading

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Hands

My grandmother, caught between Parkinson’s spells and sugar fever bouts, tells me her caretaker, dna Coca, is stealing from her. She went through my linen and towels, handpicked the pretty ones and replaced them with these rags. She tilts her … Continue reading

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Explaining love to a nine-year-old

Like bread, soft and irresistibly delicious. Never enough, yet quick to rise. Think cozy kitchen, scant winter light, the twoness in things: Robin and Batman, mustard on dogs, summer and bruises, word chain and cars, lean versus fat years, backstreet … Continue reading

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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, … Continue reading

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