You’d like to think that there’s a method to desire
sliding blind hands under sleek thighs
demanding proof of everything

And yet the non-sense fascinates:
your lips—two sweet igneous rocks, produced
under intense heat—that soften shut a chasm

It was a pub with arms in it
on Queen’s Road, Peckham,
you tried to redefine
the word romantic for me
amidst a crowd of tactful men
trying their hand at shuffleboard

I traced the faint scar on your forehead
with my ring fingertip,
your eyes widening bright
like obsidian —

We fell into the unharmonious
ribs of your words and made
a smouldering pietà

How could I hope to carry
this slowly burning candle
across an empty bed of sea

You can love a woman,
you quote that famous Frenchman,
to admire her is hard. You are not
dealing with something
more important.

My mouth fills with cold wind

Ema Dumitriu

 

Ema Dumitriu holds MA degrees in English and Comparative Literature from University College London and King’s College London, and currently lives in Bucharest, Romania. Her work has previously appeared in Tint Journal, Masque & Spectacle, The Caterpillar Chronicles and [Inter]sections.

Listen to Ema reading Experimental love poem (1:25)

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