2 poems by
Anca Vlasopolos
> bio

Night Vision first ahead a cut-out of night resisting headlights’ evaporation then the tread on brakes slow-motion trajectory few seconds left before hitting that final wall cut-out moves with the grace of long skittish legs you say hell you manage out of peripheral eye to see mother and fawn still perilously close to this swath we’ve cut through their world that now after all is the only way across and but o so slow the as the sky clears of trees you notice the three-quarter moon like a silver-paper disk smudged by the heel of night’s palm your breath just now coming back to itself utters thanks, injured-head moon, for letting me see enough

All at Once Seeds in my papì’s garden there were mangoes, mangoes and bananas but pomegranates we ate one kernel at a time so we’d stay clean and the fruit would keep for days in my papì’s garden, she says, mi papì, same words, same inflection as when she calls her new father in whose garden there are no mangoes, no bananas only leaves to be raked, wild strawberries, the occasional raspberry escaped from robin’s cocked eye and at the kitchen table we eat a whole swollen pomegranate down to the rind rain of fuchsia drops trigger remembrance, dream, wish as she and I paint ourselves in blood

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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