Come, I will buy you a house in Boise
and spend my days chasing the pulse
behind your sternum. At times, mellow
like a record spinning its vinyl, then
needle skips, retracing the lost song.
In this place, past and future will not exist,
words to be spoken only in singsong,
and fate will unweave in figments of memory.
I’ve never given you a baby but this house
will stem from us both, square inches
of built-in love to drape the missteps.
I’ll clad you in poems that feed any hunger
and wine will pour into the wild nights,
the moon’s gaze bisecting our light bodies.
When drunk on ink and too many dawns,
we’ll spiral into ourselves. The house will
stand still, a chrysalis hanging from a twig.
We’ll talk myths and I’ll make lavish appetizers
and place kisses right above the tattoo on your
left wrist where my questions scraped the skin.
The house will open onto a patch of green
where I’ll watch you dance through thin lathers
of rain until my eyeballs sting and body aches,
and no, this is not about lust, my atoms
will swim Prometheus’ fire and grind Sisyphus’
boulder before this world shifts into nothingness
and you forget I once bought you a house in Boise.
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, Waxwing, The Cortland Review and elsewhere. Her collection, The Flavor of The Other, is scheduled for publication in 2020 with Dos Madres Press. She is the Translation/International Poetry Editor of The Blue Nib.