I
tell
the leaf
it deserves
a poem
and it nods
in agreement.
I ask the rain
to keep falling
for me and it
shatters at my feet.
The wind impregnates
me with longing.
Above, that ridiculous
blue swallows me, too.
What
am I
if not
a boat made of flesh,
carrying words from one
shore of a presence
to another?
Originally from Chisinau, Moldova, Romana Iorga lives in Switzerland. She is the author of two poetry collections in Romanian. Her work in English has appeared or is forthcoming in Bellingham Review, The Hunger, American Literary Review, PANK, and others, as well as on her poetry blog at clayandbranches.com.