Poetry
Vyarka Kozareva

Photo Credit: David Geitgey Sierralupe/Flickr (CC-by)

Reminiscent of Husserl

Every morning I read a note
The same
Again
Written in red ink
Left on my kitchen table.
My eyes keep skepticism.
I am afraid
I miss the essence of the writing
In the insipidness.
I must be scrappy pretending your pre-existence.
Regal
The grapes in the epergne
Wish
Their juice could turn your fingertips sugary.

Nocturnal

Wind-slammed,
At 3 a.m. I don’t sleep.
My left hand fingers, clung together,
Lock their unspoken loss.
Time sleeps on your armchair blanket.
In its ribbed chest
The caffeine warmth of your voice
Is folding dreams.
The middle piece of night plays chemin de fer.
My pockets keep balls of old stained paper,
Letters not readable,
On which rests absolution for every broken rule
If written indecipherable.
A single bird outside
Vigilant to fly off
With my split mind under its pinion.
I wonder when, if possible at all,
The grief will make my lunacy ennobled.

Vyarka Kozareva resides in Bulgaria. Her work has appeared in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Ariel Chart, Poetry Pacific, Basset Hound Press, Bosphorus Review of Books, Mad Swirl, Ann Arbor Review, Fevers Of The Mind, Juste Milieu Lit, Trouvaille Review, Aberration Labyrinth, Triggerfish Critical Review, Sampsonia Way Magazine, and Synchronized Chaos Magazine.