Romana Iorga
—
Shadow Children
We look just like you.
Faces, limbs, fingers, toes.
They’re yours.
We have no skin of our own.
Why bother,
when we can always
borrow?
You think we’re a myth.
We slip into the empty spaces
between words,
we are
their silent shadows.
Our mouths
are filled with moths.
One whisper and your skin
slides off its flesh.
It wraps
around a shadow hand
like a discarded coat.
Our hair is our own. It burns.
You, who are blind,
fumble
through your small lives
believing they would last
forever.
Death walks among you,
hair ablaze,
whispering names
as lovers do
sweet nothings.
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 various journals, including The Nation, Salamander, New England Review, as well as on her poetry blog at clayandbranches.com
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