2/21/2018 Poetry by Clara BurgheleaThe arithmetics behind the hug When out of numbers, we could count the heartbeats and the way they softly translate into hugs. One at dawn, cracking the shells of the day, two more at noon, in the steaming warmth of the senses, half a hug, as you command the core of the day Into submission, a couple of hug-free hours, embedded in thought, bearing resemblance to the tarried clouds. As for the rest of the longing embraces, too many to tally, too few to save, they shall fall silently between the starched sheets, to shelter from all the harms of the subtraction. Scapular love Of bones, mostly. The way they rise beneath the flesh, opinionless, like the sling of a restless bow, yearning for the straight arrow to deliver the palm-to-face moment of the day. Its fashionable tingle, way deep, within the innocent marrow, sweet to the tongue, bitter to the eye. Only in sleep is Time at ease. Wholly in the solace of the child, bones grow unhindered of the coating pulp. So you will never know what lurks behind the blades, when the cage is anointed with blood. Accrual of habit Love never changes midweek. It takes a long weekend to ruin the random understanding of its death, the agony of longing and all those broken embraces hanging midair. I wish I could settle on a kiss as my first move, but then, there are cinders in my mouth and a great heaviness coiling at my feet, and the taste of burned dreams seems honied, as well as bitter. Still, today is a young Wednesday, so let us agree on a trace of gentle tenderness and speak less through the week. ![]() Bio: Clara Burghelea is Editor at Large of Village of Crickets and an MFA candidate at Adelphi University. Her poems and fiction have been published in Peacock Journal, Full of Crow Press, Quail Bell Magazine, Ambit Magazine, The Write Launch and elsewhere. She lives in New York. Comments are closed.
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