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2 poems by
Anca Vlasopolos
> bio

Night Vision


a cut-out of night resisting
headlights’ evaporation


the tread on brakes
slow-motion trajectory
few seconds left before
hitting that final wall

moves with the grace of long skittish legs

you say
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


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

thanks, injured-head moon, for letting

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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