layers of absence
the first abyss is blue.
i recognize it by its
waterlogged stars.
the second one, purple.
it doesn’t have much
to do with the first.
i move between them
like a translucent
fish. sharks
sink their amulet teeth
into my insufficient
marrow. the mind
goes gaga. those
few seconds before
i lose wisdom.
when i say abyss,
i mean cat, broomstick, fence
& suspenders.
when blue comes to town
it’s usually sick & throws up.
i’m not there
at the moment. i came
to the smallest
island i could find.
green as far as the eye
can see. sometimes
gray. on account
of the algae. i mean
angels. i mean
the angle of the sun.
you are with me.
this i must
remember.
we check in at the hotel
hanging over the edge.
bits of foundation
crumbling into the sea.
wallpaper curling off
the wall. there
are things behind
that wallpaper.
wall-scratching things.
things hungry for my
glue & paper soul.
the hotel is at least
a century old. it has seen
various dignitaries.
most of them dead now.
their names erased
from history. not
from the hotel’s leather-
bound ledger. even
the fascists’ names are
beautifully curlicued.
as if the people
bearing them have been
alive once. our names
are in there too.
something we still need
to talk about.
what it means to have
your name next
to a fascist’s. what
that association
can do to your innards.
we blame the food.
the kitchen is as
old as the hotel. not to mention
the chef. we get
what we get & we
don’t throw a fit.
the nearest restaurant an hour’s
boat ride away.
tonight, on the menu,
a rare combination
of seafood vices.
spines. eyeballs.
never mind
the fish scales.
is that an anglerfish tooth.
i feel it coming. the door
opens. hesitates. closes.
no. it’s not here yet. instead,
the room is inhabited by
a shaft of yellow light.
submerged. sharp
like the abalone shell
that sliced off your
fingertip. as if it were
trying to open you
right back. you looked at what
had been you &
wasn’t any longer.
you made a stupid joke
about childbirth. my lips
were white. i worry
too much, you said.
not quite everything
is a sign. but i knew.
i saw it happen in slow
motion. i was
outside my body.
i watched it
rush to swaddle
an uncapped finger. that
meant something.
& where was the abyss
when we drove. you
& your fingertip
to the. emergency room. who
was staring at it. who
made sure it didn’t
change. color the moment
we looked away. i tried
hard to. imagine
a nice ever. after. instead,
i see. myself from
behind. thick. glass.
can you. think up a. future
with the abyss. latched
onto your. mouth
breathing. giving birth.
to your. children.
About the author
Originally from Chisinau, Moldova, Romana Lorga lives in Switzerland. She is the author of two poetry collections in Romanian. Her work in English has appeared or is forthcoming in various journals, including New England Review, Gulf Coast, Redivider, as well as on her poetry blog at clayandbranches.com.