A Romanian Air

Updated: Jan 23

Bite into a grapefruit

and don’t hold back.

Feel the sourness pierce your gums

like a creek

let it run, the crevices of your lips

until you are forced to lick them.

Now settle

in with a cider,

make it blueberry.

Sit by the fire

with your new friends, not old,

and let your toes thaw.

Eat a pound cake

that is warm and filling,

maybe apples,

definitely cinnamon,

and let yourself be full.

Wash it down with a dark beer,

your father’s favorite

of bitter and rich consistency,

of which you have grown to admire and crave,

of which takes you ages to finish.

Bundle in your sweater

and wool socks,

under a stranger’s blanket

you cannot buy.

Wash yourself

with slippery soap

bought at a convenient store.

Look forward to sleeping,

not dreaming,

then breathe,

just breathe,

pulses and heartbeats only.

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