I open the window. Air
rushes in, dust, noise, you.
A desert wind nestles
in my mouth.
A plaintive vowel.
A cluster
of syllables rolling
like tumbleweeds.
Is wind
the only language
you speak?
What do you want from me, Muse?
Today all I hear
is Greek, your presence
ponderous
like the ancient ruins
haunted by the shadows of poets.
Like that abandoned
city I dreamed about as a child
before you took
me from me.
Obstinate column
swiveling upward into
a burning dome,
are you
my funeral obelisk?
You placed
every word I know
like a wafer
on my tongue
and here I am, dumb,
unable to utter a sound.
–
Romana Iorga is the author of Temporary Skin (Glass Lyre Press, 2024) and a woman made entirely of air (Dancing Girl Press, 2025). Her poems have appeared in various journals, including New England Review, Lake Effect, The Nation, as well as on her poetry blog at clayandbranches.com.
© 2025, Romana Iorga
Halfway Down the Stairs 