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Doina RuSti
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reflected on Alisa – she
roamed the streets with
the pride of provenance
feathering her shoulders.
Her hair was black and so
shiny that in the satin fabric
of the day, from a distance,
it looked like a house martin
in flight. It was just before
noon when the silk shoe of
Alisa passed hastily by the
canopy almost drained by
the winter’s tongues.
A wasp was buzzing above
the jars, and the sun’s
feathery light was breathing
through the roof slats.
The black hair fluttered by
a tulip’s cup-shaped bloom,
and the pride of the caste,
the crackling of burning
wood and the aroma of
walnut cake spread in the
market air.
The mist, as spicy as a
mustard seed, smacked
Eugen. And, as in so many
other occasions, the small
beings invaded all-out,
the maniacal tongue and
the
compulsive
desire
acting like swords, plunged
mercilessly into Alisa’s flesh,
yet unknown.
The market sighed, and
several pairs of eyes strained
through bouquets of lilac,
up to the stand where the
little man rested sleepily
covered up in the old habit.
Alisa received the message
like the prick of a thorn.
Around her, the world
swarmed, bouquets of
flowers swayed, and she
remained in the centre, like
a drugged cat. A scalding
and perverse stream was
rolling in her muscle fibers,
her swelling glands and the
walls of her throat.