ANNE STEWART

Melting into the Motorway on the Inside Lane

It was the beauty of it stopped me
from making the turn.

Coming home was an easy goal,
but they leapt at me.

Surprising as the ridges a thumbnail finds
on the tips of fingers,

they stooped over me, looking back at me;
the grey and blue that is not blue.

Never grey or white with ludicrous edges.
Like yourself.

No photograph can capture the feel of water
in air on the fine bone of a cheek.

The windscreen swallowed itself in awe of them
and I was hungry for paint;

ravenous – for water colour,
or a spade to dig them out.

I have told you I find myself unable to eat,
again, have no stomach for destruction.

Yet you blather for entire moments
about why the remote is yours;

why you will not go out.
Sometimes, you listen.

When the sun joined them,
soaking the sky to a thin-blood wash,

it was then, I melted.
Dropped to fifty in the slow lane.

The tears came soft and wise
as a heart pausing for grief.

I’ll call. Give me a day or two.
A month, if it goes slow enough.

Elena-Raluca Nebunoiu

Anne Stewart
 

Topindu-ma pe autostrada pe banda intai


Frumusetea ei a fost aceea care nu m-a lasat
sa intorc.

Era o tinta usor de atins venirea acasa,
dar ele mi-au sarit in fata.

Surprinzatoare ca si crestele pe care unghia le intalneste
pe varfurile degetelor,

s-au aplecat deasupra mea, privindu-ma la rândul lor;
griul albastrui ce nu e albastru.

Nu gri sau alb cu margini ridicole.
Asa ca tine.

Nicio fotografie nu poate surprinde atingerea apei
din aer pe osul fin al obrazului.

Parbrizul s-a dizolvat din veneratie pentru ele
iar eu tanjeam dupa vopsea;

cautand lacoma acuarele,
sau o lopata ca sa le dezgrop.

Ti-am spus ca am devenit incapabila sa mananc;
din nou stomacul meu nu mai inghite distrugerea.

Totusi tu trancanesti minute intregi,
explici de ce telecomanda e a ta;

si de ce nu vrei sa iesim.
Cateodata ma asculti.

Cand soarele li s-a alaturat,
inmuind cerul intr-o pelicula sangerie,

atunci m-am topit.
Am redus viteza la cincizeci pe prima banda.

Lacrimile au venit usoare si intelepte
ca o inima care ia un repaos pentru durere.

O sa te sun. Lasa-ma o zi sau doua.
O luna, daca merge suficient de incet.