ANNE STEWART

Davide. Not because…

his smile began a tingle in my boots
that leapt to brain, then bounced,
dinging wild as a pinball machine,
off every nerve and neck-hair in between.

Nor because my matron cool refused to keep;
sent me pink with images: a prankster, I knew,
kilt around his spectacles, a helium balloon.
A Swiss Army penknife slowly opening.

How you’d laugh! So at one, you and I.
But that train of thought is tired out.
What harm in admiration from beside the track?
I open my whetted legs and smile back

Alexandra Sarbu

Anne Stewart
 

Davide. Nu pentru ca...
 

zambetul lui imi dadea furnicaturi in ghete
care se inaltau pana la creier, apoi sareau,
clopotind salbatic ca un automat cu bile,
de pe orice nerv si fir de par dimprejur.

Nici pentru ca indiferenta mea de matroana a refuzat sa pastreze;
m-a trimis roz de atatea imagini: nebunatica, stiam,
fustanela in jurul ochelarilor lui, un balon cu heliu.
Un briceag elvetian de armata deschizandu-se usor.

Ce-ai mai rade! Asadar, la unu, tu si eu.
Dar trenul gandurilor e istovit.
Ce e rau in a admira de dincolo de sine?
Imi desfac picioarele atatate si intorc zambesc