Two Poems by Raluca Balasa

 

FIVE YEARS AFTER MARRIAGE

 

Faces angled slightly from the camera,

dark eyes focused on the future.

Skin translucent like wax paper,

her lips tight to hide the gap between her teeth,

his mouth quirked in that way that spells

a secret he will share with only you

if you will listen.

 

Listen, it's dangerous containing the blackness

of their hair on the page. It will stain your fingers

the way their restraint breaks into you now –

tight lips and clear skin and a stillness

that promises nothing will be amiss until

dialysis,

death.

 

No way to know if they

could have known,

would have smiled differently

if they had. 

 

COFFEE DATE AT BARNES AND NOBLE

 

She no longer has eyes

in which I see myself.

The mirror is fogged, milky

like the coffee I bring her.

In them I see a stranger

stirring her drink, one cream,

no sugar a lifetime ago,

now empty sweetness like her smile.

I read the news aloud while she nods

and wonders where we are. Smell the books?

I ask, hoping. She replies,

Your hands are so big.

Sometimes I spill a little to see her move.

Now my hand shakes and porcelain tips

and she does not blink. We watch,

lips parted as beige creeps toward

the table's edge like a tendril probing

for life or death.

By Raluca Balasa