How this love is a gun by Clara Burghelea


How this love is a gun


We jinxed ourselves to the marrow of the night,

never to catch a wink of sleep, I am no fisherman,

you whisper, pluck me some metaphors, eye-wide

and plump, their edges scratching my lips, spring

will sprout this year from every scab and wound,

if we open out the window on this warm April,

dark will tame the ruffles on our misbehaving skin,

the flashing lights of passing cars explode through

the curtains, spinning against the wall, your fat palm,

heavy as an unfinished dream, swells up all air cells.