Cristina M Moldoveanu

In the hereafter world there is a council. A general reunion among big and little, both the old ones who still hold on a dry root and the new ones still wandering in the low skies and knocking on

the sky is heavy the eyes of the dolls are murky… here are too many horror masks clowns grinning washing their makeup in the same laundry basin one last love dies under the glass turned

the wax doll mirrored herself in a puddle she felt a scent of moist earth upon her barren belly trees were blossoming full of wild bees after the magician’s performance she raised on

because of too many nightmares I’m visited by the dead those familiar persons with ordinary words with hobbies and bad habits so homy / we ride together on the horse or in the small car we

I was just sleeping, because of boredom, and I woke up on an empty boarding platform with its pavement stones blackened. The grass sprouted out victorious among cracks, black as coal. The wind

if others slithered between two air columns the child who had never learned the race was running as if swimming face to face with an ocean’s wall his head like an iron ball dragging the

unborn baby I yearned for you in my empty belly like someone hiding his tears in a pillow I blended the bitter yeast of life with tender wheat sap to make you grow proud and strong to be

I wrote a poem like a lonely woman crying for someone to make a gift of it whoever passed by dropped the well’s lid without looking down from too much yelling my eyes got dry I

some say i was cursed because of too much red i was a child because of too much black an old nun almost never a woman dancing flamenco among life’s flounces the greedy ones stole my

in my man’s palm I lay my tired ear and it’s like I can enter there completely sleeping eyes opened a wise child’s nap my primer book on my knees he draws the curtains slowly to prevent

the small woman from the attic sits cross-legged with her pink plastic hair rollers for hours. her life spins like the spool of thread on the sewing machine. she sleeps wearing a flowery

it’s christmas dad lend me once more your hand to compare ourselves among the living people i ever touched only your hand was bigger if you want to we can go to the seashore hand in hand

my body like a bugle I listen to the hot sea rolling over sand to the sky sticking to earth like a mellow pumpkin with all its stars far and away high over this mud gathered under the

as if I hid my hands with gnarled fingers under my grandma’s mohair shawl the same winter after winter on her shoulders and my finger bones don’t stay wise like cuckoo offspring in a

I am alone and therefore everyone says that I stopped talking a long time ago more and more myopic I keep my eyes like a snail at the top of my ballpoint pen it smells like poppy seed cake and

(published in Daily Haiga)

(haiga published in Lynx, 28:3, October 2013)

they crucified a man in all his might first they made him smaller until the eyes were pin heads and the body like a matchstick didn’t weigh more than a dewdrop on the snail’s tentacle

J’ai reçu un diagnostic incertain à cause duquel je n’ai jamais porté de lunettes. Quelquefois mes yeux agrandissaient, autrefois ils amoindrissaient, de telle façon que le monde était