Blood origin stains

Bucharest to Budapest corridor

I, a dusky cocktail shaker of Romani

Transylvanian Dragon

And a hint of Hun

Jewelry of choice

Pungent garlic garlands

Neckerchief hiding vulnerable spots

Wild wolves leaping

Through unshuttered windows

Where babies in baskets

Dream on the cold wood stove

Mother rarely sleeping

Until children of age

To self-protect

All those years

You stood outside

Waiting for me to be

Old enough for you

And I knew

How wrong

How good

Your lips felt

Secret bruise throbbing

Under my fringed shawl

Skin growing paler with each taste

Then one night

Unspeakable delight

Lying on icy stone

Never to return home

Eternal bliss with you…


© 2016 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE: Budapest abandoned house (FB post)


    1. Thanks, Daisy! As you probably know from reading some of my “memoir” poems, my dad and his brother did sleep on a stove in old Romani slave quarters in Moldova and the shutters were left open. He was afraid of dogs all his life because the wild dogs (or wolves) would try to get in and nip them. Whew! I try to think of events like that when I’m in a self-pity mode 🙂


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