You edit me out. From your memories. Your wet dreams. Your mail.
The income tax return of a cautiously legal bachelor. The pantry. Cans.
Multivitamins. Business cards of handymen, cleaning ladies, mortgage
brokers. The out-of- date card of your ex-wife. With two last names.
The kitchen area. Where we made love. In passing. Between the stove
and the sink. On our feet. After, you did the dishes. The fridge magnets.
A black Christ. From Sweden. A deer who knew it was his last photograph.
A turtle. Pink with green polka dots. From a tourist shop in Florida.
The unkempt backyard. A raccoon marking his territory. On your deck.
A new pile every night. A leafless elm tree like a high-rise condo. For birds.
A smoker. DuMaurier Distinct Silver. The candle-holder as ashtray. Crazed.
Sin-smelling air comes out from my lungs. You inhale it but fan me away.
“We’re not a couple!”
You move through time as if walking on water. Casually.
I move through time as if through thick layers of cotton. Willfully.
“I love you!” I say. You squint. One more time. Marvelling.
Diana Manole is a Romanian-Canadian writer, translator, and scholar. A Pushcart Prize nominee, her poetry in English (co-translated with Adam J. Sorkin or written originally therein) has appeared in magazines in the US, the UK, Canada, and South Africa. She is now working on “Hyphens & Periods.” her first collection of poems written in English. You can find her here, here and on Twitter.