swifts  &  s l o w s · a quarterly of crisscrossings

the untied pendulum
Ioana Cosma

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5 am

clandestine passenger on the 5 AM
ride to wonderland, she’d been there before,
she’d seen those men of indiscretion, those hands
that grasp blue air comatose and bereft.

sipping on chamomile tea while others were
drinking tequila, though the sun was to be late on
the occasion, flapper ear hat and crocheted mittens
like a time traveler from an age of misplaced vestiges.

she felt the importance of the moment, everyone
was wearing costumes, she remembered she had
no make-up on but counted on her sweet smile
they might remember her this way, anyway.

on this static night ride, there were no intruders
only guests and familiars who had dedicated drinks
instead of names, soon she forgot hers too and wondered
what was the meaning of 5 am chamomile, didn’t matter.

De-frag

Like a sketch blotted in vanishing ink
like shellfish shedding alabaster wings
like monsoons over east of your body,
the mind bottles, the mind bursts, the mind ignites.

i am who you are should be my last sentence,
though who you were I do not know,
the syllables from mind to face etched in
silver linings over the foreheads of the gods.

inside there is all and nothing a gift which seeks
everything in return, once given, the mind gives way
to apathy and sin. The scholar with shorn locks of hair,
the shoeless catwalker who knew no rhymes.

she is the succour of he and he is the neverending
dot on the infinite conversation lift me up she still felt
the limitation, the brackets, the grand finale:
the organ sounded apathetic and hollow.

Stasis

So we got all the answers.
Now what?
It stretches northway, the untied pendulum,
while our strings stir softly in the evening air.
Cannot be bothered with unattachment, she said,
such a waste of time, in the long run.
Giving alms, the mind forgets, giving
what is not yours is always easy.
So I’ll hang on to this fisherman’s rope. Anchored.
No need for ships of stone, for three-day shipwrecks.
No need for starving on the deck.
Take Ulysses versus the sirens, for instance.
There will be no longer question of drowning, of
breathing blissfully under careens. Rather, facing the sky
kite-wise and running to keep the frail balance.
It will be as far as we can get, and then some more.
The veil lifted off unblinking painted stone makes me wanna laugh
the pun, the joke, the harshness of the reprimand.
But, for now, I linger and gently float in moonlight
I’m unexpected to myself. I’m unbecoming in this life.

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Ioana Cosma is a writer and lecturer from Romania. Her poetry has been published with Silver Bow, New Meridian Arts and Dancing Girl Press.  You can see her translations of contemporary Romanian poetry on Arteidolia →