ROMANA IORGA
Alter Ego
I didn’t know what she was:
that brittle, reed-like,
human-like riddle.
A paper whisper.
A burn.
She made an ark
for a language the color
of loneliness.
Words rushed to her.
So did the clouds.
It was hard to watch her
drown in the rain,
while keeping
my fingers crossed
for the rainbow.
This bruised shadow of a promise…
This bruised shadow
of a promise.
I made it. It was meant
for her. The woman
without a face. Right
before I left.
Years later, things
lost
their taste. Bruises
come and go.
They change
colors. So
do promises. They are
spoken. Some
languish
and sigh
and fade away.
Others eat
everything in sight
until nothing’s left,
except.
That mouth
of a thousand
teeth. A promise
made to someone
whose face
I’ve forgotten.