but not in the embryonic sense.
One fair, rounded – Botticelli,
the other dark, angled – Modigliani.
Both are perched
on the same precipice, looking down
in perplexity; want to dance
into the sky, but are reined in
by the looming earth. Shaking
with laughter at their own folly,
they stretch their limitless questions
beyond arm’s reach,
then divine for the answers
within each other,
like twins connected
in the metaphysical sense.
Are you seeing someone,
I ask.
(We haven’t been together for a while
and I suspect
you might have found
someone new,
although I think
I know you pretty well).
Yes, you reply
avoiding my eyes,
and my heart misses a beat.
It’s not that I am jealous, no.
I just thought
I was
irreplaceable.
Zlatna Kostova
I will never
learn to live
in the moment
as long as
I keep believing
moments come
in different kinds.
I keep going.
After laboring with tongue hanging out
she floats down on the breath of angels
a wee satin-sash-wrapped package
a live porcelain doll featuring a delicate button nose
dark blue twinkles of magic, a pouting pucker, rosy cheeks
fine strands of dark fluff on her tiny head
ten, long little fingers and ten, perfect little piggies
a warm armful of squishy, squeeze-y, marshmallow-y sweetness.
This gift of sunshine and miracle—cause for my greatest affection
then
after wheeling out the hospital doors with delight hanging out
I’m hit head-on
by dry mouth, decreased capacity for air
racing heart and rushing mind.
Dragon-hot fire rages down my neck.
Skies darken, atmosphere cools
confidence burns, faith fails
hope diminishes, peace flees
The stork’s prize given to me—cause for my greatest anxiety.
What now?
