The Size of Words

this poem will have

no oceans and sands,

no rain-forest fumes,

no magic flutes,

no snakes and fairy-tales

the only thing this poem will have

is small words

words which walk side by side

and adjust their breathing

to the same rhythm,

then tell their stories

through silences

words which kidnap the mind

and keep it a hostage

in a purple dream

without a ransom

or hope of reprieve

words which fly high

like a skirt up the thighs

cycling down a drafty street

only moon-lit late at night

and someone to meet

words which sing you a lullaby

and take your head in the palms

of their hands, slowly,

their fingertips brushing your

earlobes, lightly

words you’d like to hold in your arms

but can’t even keep close at hand

because with each syllable,

they burst into smithereens

and - to the sounds of enchanting tunes

from faraway fairy lands  -

rain down on the world

as forests,

as water,

as sand.

Why I'm Letting You Go

I'm letting you go
not because
my molecules can function without you
or because
I'm bored,
or tired,
or strong.

I'm letting you go
because the last time you hugged me,
you crushed my spine
into your chest
so that I gasped in pain
and later knew
that you are a big child
who wants too much
(impossibly so)
and, with an innocent smile,
demolishes all on its way
despite not meaning to.

What Travelling Back Feels Like

Two hours every year.
In twelve years, we'll have spent
a full day together.
So those last 5 minutes of the two hours -
we make full use of them.
At the crossing, waiting for the green light,
I turn and across the commotion of people's heads,
I see them, tiny and already far.
I lift both arms, and so does she.
I wave with one in broad strokes
and she does too. I jump, and lean,
and balance on one leg, she repeats,
and we don't have to speak to know
what we've said. Then the light is green,
and I walk away into another year.

**********************************

In the elevator at the Munich Airport
we look at each other curiously.
I ask the girl whom I recognize
from the Belgrade plane in Serbian;
"Will you make it for the next one?"
"I think so, it's the Chicago flight
in half an hour."
"I"m going to Montreal," I volunteer,
and now we all know we speak
the same language. The chubby guy
on the left says he's on his way
to Chicago too, and the guy to the right
says with a smile, "And I'm off to San Francisco.
But it's all at the same place, isn't it?"
The elevator door opens, and we spill
into three different directions,
without another word.

***********************************

When I enter my apartment, the air is stuffy
and smells of a month's absence.
I kick my shoes off, wheel the suitcase
out of the way, and check my voice mail.
In the last message, an old woman's voice
says with indignation, "Allô......
Y a-t-il quelqu'un????" I stand with the receiver
in my hand, listen to the crackling
on the other side, and wonder if I'm there.

Sketches from Corfu

The beach is a silver haze.
Emerging from a pool of light,
a big golden dog wades into the shallows,
and stands there a while. I can't see well,
but I think his eyes are closed.

***************************

Twenty minutes before the sunset,
the only person in the sea
is a man floating in the bronze,
and copper, and mauve. He walks out
naked, slowly puts his shorts on,
then breaks into a run. For a second,
it seems he'll never stop, and the sun
will never go down.

****************************

Once I go in, I never feel like going out.
The water is balmy, with just enough salt
to make you lick your lips hungrily.
I move minimally, and can't get enough
of the thick dark-green trees on the shore.
When I look down, the sunlight streams in,
and I see my shadow, a giant frog
skipping on the bottom.

Post-Mythical

At the zenith of the day, the heat is dripping
from the glare above, some of it caught
by the olive grove shade. The road is old
and narrow, meant for quiet insular lives,
by now pockmarked with holes and craters
of continued existence past mythical times.

At an insidiously dangerous curve,
where a lake-like hole gapes from the road,
an old man with a bony frame and tattered beard
stands with a broom, slowly sweeps the scattered
gravel back into the hole; then, when his eyes
meet the passing car, his hand shoots to a salute.

A mid-day guardian of the road, an envious role.