Two Poems

BRAINS

 

You didn’t have any

that Sunday afternoon

at the family table—your chain-

smoking father, too weak

to tend his backyard garden,

still masculine enough to want

to rip that necklace from your neck,

in silence he slid the first slice

onto my plate and waited for me

to eat the one thing I told myself

I’d never eat—I swallowed

the bite whole. Here, I was

the foreigner. I was your guest.

 

 

 

 

ECLIPSE

 

The bird moved when I moved.
It was like a klonopin, it slept

between my breasts—opened its eyes
only when I peeked inside my shirt

and let in light.

 

 

 

Tara Skurtu is a Boston-based poet and translator currently living in Romania, where she is a 2015-2017 Fulbright lecturer at Transilvania University of Brașov. She is the recipient of two Academy of American Poets prizes, a Marcia Keach Poetry Prize, and a Robert Pinsky Global Fellowship. Her recent poems have appeared in The Kenyon ReviewPoetry Review, Tahoma Literary Review, and Poetry Wales. Tara’s debut collection, The Amoeba Game, will be released by Eyewear Publishing in the fall of 2017.

 

 

 

Issue #64 November 2016
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