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Through My Fingertips

By Cristina-Monica Moldoveanu

Copyright 2017

By Cristina-Monica Moldoveanu

Smashwords Edition




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Idyll



My lady-love has a shy and light shadow,

at the break of dawn she puts on a bride gown, the sun runs through her

under her armpits and on her thin waist.

She lets herself down like a veil on the grass, she barely covers

the fluffy dandelions shining with dew.

My lady-love is like milky quartz, she's crossed through by sunlight

from head to toes and all that's left of her for me are only her eyes,

big and gentle under her smooth forehead, only her copper breastplate,

the soles of her feet with a filigree of dust,

and her lips as if by chance moist, which I cannot touch,

almost never.


My sweetheart is white and straight like beech wood,

he grows far from the forest of so many heavy winters, he crosses the sky

with tall and bold branches, he steals the storm clouds,

and flashes his lightning upon my eyelids,

until I begin to shine.

From beneath my skin he unveils the blue little veins palpitating,

he listens to my silence until he feels my whole heart

how it beats under his thumbs in the hour of marvel and luck.

He loosens his wild cloth upon his chest

when he takes me in his arms,

from head to toes, with a blackcurrant taste,

and it's only his moist lips which I cannot touch,

almost never.


In their love he covers with shade her translucent body.

In their love she brings the sparkle in his eyes concealed from the sun.



Resurrection



In my time I looked at my hands and I understood:

I resemble my mother.

Life flows out from my joints and comes back to itself through my fingertips,

according to the season. I juggle with life, I give it and take it back.

Either I keep my hands in prayer, or I place them on the bare ground,

I am just like her.


Yorick died to me not so long ago.

He was gentle and subdued in the hands of Hamlet

and it was also him looking at me around the mirror Mary Magdalene.

From the smoke of my cigarettes, little black spiders appeared

between my fingers and I smashed them one by one...

but today they are resurrected, sadly jolting on the dirty floor.

I did not know that even they can come back to life.


Today I speak to Yorick's son, whilst through the pulse of my fingers

yesterday's sun still passes towards tomorrow:

you too, your Kindness, you are alike your father.




Broadway, New York City



Did you know that she was just a child between day and night?


Poco sostenuto, yells the coat check girl, right before the beginning

of the Concerto for bassoon and orchestra by Mozart.


A few evergreens but too opened, such as their ecstatic color broke

the glass and flew over the shelves, the difference between I and you,

the first step of con-science that the innocent minds do call epistemology.


Once she was still a (young) woman with her hair curled up

by the action of city pipeline water.


Molto vivace, yells the man in charge with announcing stage performances.


How beautiful it looks sometimes the moon landing of mankind

that you learn to accept, the way any kind of solo beauty falls

in the disgrace of the orchestral harmony.


She was just a child growing up in a family that grew older.

Oh, your daddy’s rich and your ma is good-lookin'.


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