“Love is Patient”

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If love is patient, what is it to me?
For I’m too weak to wait until it comes.
I need it now, but it does not need me
to feel its presence or to know its sums.
I cannot add it up, so I subtract,
dissect it into bytes I comprehend.
These fragments my own brokenness refract;
my actions just my sanity upend.
I feed into this culture of defeat,
join the addictive cycle as it spins,
detain my fear by fighting for false peace
of mind, but not of heart; thus folly wins.
But love – if patient – grants me quiet space
where structure gives me freedom hell to face.

“Five Months Later”

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Five months later, and you’re still dead
As if it were still funny, still fresh, still new
Five months later, and the demons have spread
As if I let my guard down, as if it were still true

Five months later, and the well-wishing has stopped
Already, as if your death is passé
Five months later, and the world has gone on
But we’re trapped in the hold of that day

Five months – and the careless things people say
Only multiply: “you’re so lucky, to have a home,
A place to stay” – when home has died
And we saw it ripped from her body with our own eyes

09/29/16 – Emma Dumitra.

“September”

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Chestnuts now litter the ground
Spaced apart in elegant brown
Curved and shiny shells unbroken
Like the last words that between us
Were spoken – dry
Dehydrate slowly as winter nears
This time without you

Where you lie garnished
With wilting roses and – to my surprise
The lilac bush we gave you sweetly,
Long ago thought dead, now tries
To bloom again

The yellow leaves fall always from the sky
Continuous in motion while you lie
In elegant, dry stillness fade
Leach out of life like chlorophyll from leaves
Impervious perhaps, or simply far
From here, your oldest daughter
While she grieves

Written September 2016, Emma Dumitra.

“Chemothera-Putrid”

WhiteRockbyMom

It’s not like in the movies

Composed of questions, quests

Dramatic bald heads nodding, bobbing, suffering

Projectile vomit and finite deadlines.

It’s quieter, wispier, more uncertain

Like those dirty flakes we once called hair

You finally shaved off slightly.

It’s sore palms and painfully cracked skin

It’s gaining weight when the steroids do you in

It’s quality of life, and it’s chemo

When venom in your veins is better

Than your own cells.

It’s watching you melt like a candle

As the poison slowly fills you intravenously

Feeling the dread and the gorge rising

When I exit like a coward because that’s not really you

It can’t be.

It’s jokes about stool and all the colors and consistencies

We could apply to oil pastels,

But this is not art

And on good days it feels like we’re faking it all

And bad days are hell, but we smile.

When I hear you cough my mind jumps to your funeral

And health class reminds me of the day you will die.

Thera-putrid are those days when your door is closed

And you sleep the hours away, and it’s almost escape

And I’m grateful for how much you hide from me

But even forgetting makes me ache.

Written September 2015, Emma Dumitra.
Photo Credit: Nana Dumitra.

Simple Pleasures

A delicious little poem by my sister that you should only read if you’re prepared to salivate.

[insert clever wordplay]

Cold apple-juice my insides licks
While sour-cream of coolness tastes
And in zucchini-soup goop sticks
While down my throat the food with haste

Next radish-horse on ham and bread
And pick of veggies from the cold
If cabbage, carrot, pepper red
Or something else my mouth enfolds

Yes sir, our fridge is full of food
Like herrings in their hallowed jar
A nest of eggs in styr-form broods
And juice completes the drinking bar

A taste of yogurt, frozen fruits
And freshly apples picked (and pears)
Pink radishes and onion-roots
‘Midst carrots with their verdant hairs

I don’t aspire to gluttons’ meals
Nor in my joy deny this wealth
But since, for once, the table feels
So full I won’t raid lair or shelf

From my own kitchen to my mouth
A spice, a sauce, a green, some meat
Ring true the words “i hör ned auf”**
And so, without…

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