A Woman of Eastern Ways and Contradictions

Poem

Ema Dumitru
Scribe

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Photo from personal archive

Perhaps not much,
but I own a human story
set in the city in which I love you.

A table for three,
you and me facing each other,
and history seated between us,
that we’ve forgotten
despite eating its bread each day.

I only remember a hand
placing the bread on the table,
not a name, or even a face,
but I trust to have it anyway.

I turn toward you and I loosen my veil,
turning most myself.
I mean to give in
whatever the next scene is.
But my face remains unapproachable.

Love in me is a wound
that I tend to in private.
Emotion is just like personal hygiene, Motherland taught,
never to be taken care of in the eyes of the public.

A woman of Eastern ways and contradictions.
If nothing else, you have this, our blood, the resilience.
It can shred the grey cloud, quick like a shot.

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