Romana Iorga


The part where I say yes is the part
where I lie. You’d think by now
I’d have learned to lie better.
The trees twist their serpentine trunks
to emulate my anguish. I distrust
orange. It’s too happy. Morning glories
I understand: no one sings hallelujah
quite like them. If you were to ask
what this poem was about, I’d say
despair. I know how to be raunchy,
I don’t shy away from mischief.
Despair, though, comes easily,
like an old parakeet that has lost
its mate. Perched on my outstretched
middle finger, it picks mournfully
at a handful of imaginary seeds,
most of them wannabe joy. It so
happens that in the late 90s I had felt
joy, briefly. It came with a ring attached.
In the years after, the idea of me
was infinitely more tempting than any
body I could have inhabited. I don’t
say this to be mean. It’s no one’s
fault that joy is a tease. Also, I tend
to overshare. Listen. As far as I’m
concerned, I am through with joy.
May it rest in pieces in someone else’s
dead grip. May it forget its own
name and wear a pseudonym.
Grief, I will call it. Sadness. My kin.