‘In the passing’ and other poems
by Alexandra Magearu
IN THE PASSING
a tumult of birds
like a little chaos
thick and fluttering
with treasures in their toothless mouths
cruel in the glacial light
inside an elaborate tapestry
stretching from palm tree to palm tree
on suspended looming highways
occupied with nothing but movement.
this minor disorder unravels
too early in the morning
while the airplanes trace
sunken floodplains in the sky
a collection of empty chairs
each with its own escape plan
equipped with habits of forgetting
uprooted and speeding ahead
into the blinding distance.
and we
our hair disheveled
discarded shells in hand
with sketches of our abandoned homes
grasses growing from within pools of dust
all belongings destroyed or looted
family histories erased from the records
animals dispersed with the winds
under the roar of normalcy
the difference pressed deep
within the drifting skin.
whatever we lost is now only in the details
not even in memory
fractured keepsakes
of a life before the deafening quiet began.
***
PAST TENSE
This is what my mother said to me
in the fading light of the cinema theater
eyes catching the glow of the screen
hands moving like deep ocean undercurrents
film unspooling from the reel
into motion
into touch
into an idea.
This is what it meant
to be under the spotlight
in someone else’s bed
on the stretcher
far from the city
by the shapeless pond
or in the heart of the city
among strangers
at the mercy of no one
exposed
not naked
but parted in two
incongruous halves.
This is what it felt like
to be less than a whole
a series of jumbled fragments
segments of light
or life
streaming out of you
the drain cloth soaked
and heavy now
with all the evacuated warmth
a sorry state of what could have been
inhale once and you are two
exhale twice and you are none
or so I remember.
This is what it sounded like
to have a handful of needles
tucked under the carpet
a reminder that
they are tracking us
like the most jealous of lovers
inside our bedrooms
and notebooks
and phone calls
eyes dispersed to anyone willing to watch
ears for the undressing
hands for information
feet for trampling
until we made ourselves very small
longing for disappearance.
Squiggles in an insectarium
splayed for their amusement
or for the good of the people
or for the love of the nation
after a formula for growth
designed by lab coated bureaucrats
replicating broken numbers
with real toes and fingers
and skin and bones
and hearts and memories
all sticking out.
From darkrooms and basements
closets and hallways
alleys and gardens
our muffled screams lifted
like bubbles out of swollen bodies
iridescent
merging with the air
until all the breaths you took in
were unbreathable.
***
ROOTED
we stumbled upon a view of the trees
leaning heavily on the edge of the gorges
their balance so precarious
it was unworldly.
branches thick with disappearing leaves
all bird song and breathing and chase
the most invisible of lifelines
tucked in the depths of neglect.
trunks bent towards the sun
or perhaps light in general
an orientation towards the future
in the certainty of presence.
roots dashing out of the soil
fighting each other in the holding
clinging to a sense of permanence
as if time was theirs and theirs only.
so we took a step back
and fell out of the line of the horizon
two streaks of light
extinguished in the blind spot of the earth.
Note from the editor:
Hey there, it’s Kate Tsurkan, editor-in-chief. Literary magazines like Apofenie are able to remain up and running first and foremost thanks to the support of their readers. Please consider becoming a paid member today and helping our community grow.
