The Most Gentle Breeze

You and I find ourselves 

where the air smells of sheep wool 

and the ground, of freshly cut grass.

The breeze around us 

tastes like peach lemonade,

the clouds, sour on our tongues, 

like the candies we would suck on,  

hoping баба wouldn’t see.

They have become our friends, 

whispering drowsy stories 

in our ears

видях вашата баба 

сам, сама, самотна

липсвате и́


how she burns her toast in the mornings,

or the way she sings gentle praise 

to the plants that have bloomed 

before their time,

браво бабините кокичета 

смело напред 

само така

how she picks the fruit from the apple trees 

and twists their stems clockwise,

how she clips her hair back and smooths 

the edges with damp hands,

how she keeps a napkin in her pocket 

moist with solitary tears,

how she smiles at the daffodils

and pleads with the clouds

to embrace her lonely form

with the most gentle, soothing breeze.

Lexical Somnolence

I sleep under a sheet of tongues,

(wrapped around me like my mother’s arms.)

My head rests upon a pillow, 

or a tooth.

My eyes are stagnant marbles 

tucked under a blanket 

of loose eyelashes and tears.

My body opens its mouth. 

Phantom tongues unravel, 

twirling in dialect around me.

I shift, unaware,

that words can stare back

with eyes that see through you

and tongues that burn

as lexical limbs pull me down

into slippery submission.


Fresh lavender in the dusk woven light,

my mother’s perfume – 

warm and distant.

She welcomes the rain

absorbs the storms that linger

in the lining of her womb.

She digs a hole for her roots

in the garden, 

kisses my eyes and lets me sleep there