A Poet Is
An eel, open-mouthed at the mouth
of its burrow, borrowing time
until the right prey comes along.
Fish glide by with their frivolous tails
of who kissed whom in the seaweed
and who got in trouble with the shark.
An owl, morose on its branch,
hungry for three days now and counting,
waiting for the big game.
Mice won’t suffice any longer. No to juvenile
rabbits, daft foxes, reckless raccoons.
A moose would be good.
A spider, spinning constantly, greedily, not
so patiently, slowly becoming Whitman
of the white beard and wide-brimmed hat.
Then, erasing the web, one strand
at a time, for perceived flaws. Nothing
ever catches in the unraveling snare.
A child, whose quick hand traps the tail
of a lizard. He watches it wriggle in the dirt,
while the prey darts for its life.
Swift, swift, swiftly into the blessed
shadow of weeds, into the yawning
jaws of a snake, who’s not even
Originally from Chisinau, Moldova, Romana Iorga is a Romanian-American poet living in Switzerland. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Ruminate, saltfront, Borderlands, as well as on her poetry blog at clayandbranches.com.
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