Carmen Firan
differences
the difference between solemnity and a rigid pair of shoulders
is the same as between pretended silence and speechlessness
the parallel lines race each other leaving no trace on the skin
they flow between heaven and earth
linking big infinity with small infinity
the difference between loneliness and a languorous woman
recumbent on a divan
is the same as between imposed exile and running in circles
far enough from home
with your fate recast halfway through your journey
in the midst of others’ silence
you could die and no one would hear
real estate
I have a house for sale in a quiet neighborhood
only a couple of steps from hell
—location is everything--
the dead body always exits feet first
and is tempted to run downhill
while the soul gets yanked free through a window
by a well-intentioned grandmother
who sacrificed her day
to show off the banquet high in the heavens
I have a house for sale with new roof and triple-glazed windows,
it comes down to predicting the future
the dead will want perfect isolation
high ceilings to keep cool in the summer
and to give the impression of open space,
the sky a stone’s throw away,
the city the third stop on the express line,
the best yeshiva just around the corner
for quite a while now
I’ve tried to sell the house roof walls and me,
the timing’s bad, my Chinese neighbors suggest
suspicious of the grapevine
which throws black grapes over their fence
mimicking my childhood transplanted into a foreign body,
people are no longer in a rush to buy,
the planet keeps getting warmer,
everything’s growing, enlarging, swelling
we’ll pop like a balloon,
spread throughout the universe
and create other utopias
OK, but in the here and now
I have an old brick house for sale
motionless on the threshold I’m waiting for
buyers from other planets--
please hurry, it’s not even my house
crackups
in my late thirties I killed my ego
in the bathroom
I slowly twisted its neck with my own two hands
the Adam’s apple thudded to the cement floor
one by one I cut the threads
from which I drew my power
strong enough to keep me upright in a hunchback world
I knew I was mistaken to love my crackups
more than the patch of earth granted to me
now I know that each departure
is nothing more than the self-importance
of not being the one who stands
waiting on the platform
a tree grown in the cracks of the asphalt
in cold blood I watched the warm, proud, salty stream
snake down its chin
washing away the arrogance of forgiving nothing
the sweet venom of my daily solitude with an impudent body
the bread and butter of my youth
__________
Carmen Firan, Romanian born, has published twenty books in Europe and in the US, including poetry, novels, essays and short stories. Among her recent books are Inferno (Spuyten Duyvil), Rock and Dew (Sheep Meadow Press), Words&Flesh (Talisman Publishers), The Second Life (Columbia University Press). Firan is a member of the Pen American Center and the Poetry Society of America. See www.carmenfiran.com
differences
the difference between solemnity and a rigid pair of shoulders
is the same as between pretended silence and speechlessness
the parallel lines race each other leaving no trace on the skin
they flow between heaven and earth
linking big infinity with small infinity
the difference between loneliness and a languorous woman
recumbent on a divan
is the same as between imposed exile and running in circles
far enough from home
with your fate recast halfway through your journey
in the midst of others’ silence
you could die and no one would hear
real estate
I have a house for sale in a quiet neighborhood
only a couple of steps from hell
—location is everything--
the dead body always exits feet first
and is tempted to run downhill
while the soul gets yanked free through a window
by a well-intentioned grandmother
who sacrificed her day
to show off the banquet high in the heavens
I have a house for sale with new roof and triple-glazed windows,
it comes down to predicting the future
the dead will want perfect isolation
high ceilings to keep cool in the summer
and to give the impression of open space,
the sky a stone’s throw away,
the city the third stop on the express line,
the best yeshiva just around the corner
for quite a while now
I’ve tried to sell the house roof walls and me,
the timing’s bad, my Chinese neighbors suggest
suspicious of the grapevine
which throws black grapes over their fence
mimicking my childhood transplanted into a foreign body,
people are no longer in a rush to buy,
the planet keeps getting warmer,
everything’s growing, enlarging, swelling
we’ll pop like a balloon,
spread throughout the universe
and create other utopias
OK, but in the here and now
I have an old brick house for sale
motionless on the threshold I’m waiting for
buyers from other planets--
please hurry, it’s not even my house
crackups
in my late thirties I killed my ego
in the bathroom
I slowly twisted its neck with my own two hands
the Adam’s apple thudded to the cement floor
one by one I cut the threads
from which I drew my power
strong enough to keep me upright in a hunchback world
I knew I was mistaken to love my crackups
more than the patch of earth granted to me
now I know that each departure
is nothing more than the self-importance
of not being the one who stands
waiting on the platform
a tree grown in the cracks of the asphalt
in cold blood I watched the warm, proud, salty stream
snake down its chin
washing away the arrogance of forgiving nothing
the sweet venom of my daily solitude with an impudent body
the bread and butter of my youth
__________
Carmen Firan, Romanian born, has published twenty books in Europe and in the US, including poetry, novels, essays and short stories. Among her recent books are Inferno (Spuyten Duyvil), Rock and Dew (Sheep Meadow Press), Words&Flesh (Talisman Publishers), The Second Life (Columbia University Press). Firan is a member of the Pen American Center and the Poetry Society of America. See www.carmenfiran.com