STEPHEN WILSON

Uncle Simon’s Eighty-Fifth

Milk, you insist, can be emptied
from a glass jug into a paper cone,
that (staying miraculously dry)
can be screwed up and tossed away.
The secret is a transparent case
into which the poured milk flows.
I recall the many occasions
on which you removed your thumb
and stuck it back, triumphantly
produced aces from a shuffled pack
or spirited a handkerchief into thin air.
And now the magic again —
My lips know your stubble
as a kiss on the Land of Israel,
the pleasure of a forgotten home.
Out of our embrace, warm
like a dove conjured from a fist,
your brother, my father — alive.

Claudia Haralambie

Stephen Wilson
 

Unchiul Simon la optzeci si cinci
 

Tu insisti ca laptele poate fi trecut
din cana intr-un cornet de hartie,
care (ramanand uscat ca prin minune)
poate fi mototolit si aruncat.
Secretul este o cutie transparenta
in care pluteste laptele turnat.
Imi amintesc de atatea ocazii
cand ti-ai taiat degetul si l-ai pus la loc,
ai scos triumfator asii dintr-un pachet de carti amestecate
sau ai insufletit in aer o batista.
Si acum ai facut din nou magie –
Buzele mele iti cunosc barba tepoasa
ca un sarut pe Taramul lui Israel,
placerea unui camin uitat.
Din imbratisarea ta, placut
ca o turturea, iesind magic dintr-un pumn
fratele tau, tatal meu – in viata.