Danila Stoianova

Translated from the Bulgarian by Ludmilla G. Popova-Wightman

All year long, I've been waiting
for my tulip to open its bud
enfolded in colors of spring madness,
to spurt cool freshness from its sealed pores,
to unfurl its reluctant petals sleepily,
and shivering sweetly - to be a flower at last,
not always a full-of-promise bud.
I am fed up with changing
the water in the glass,
where it shakes its naked,
green, and round leg.
Today I couldn't bear it any more,
I reached and opened it.

And only with my touch, I understood
the lips, pressed together,
the breath, held inside its folded petals -
unwilling to let go; in its bud
with fierce vanity,
my little flower
was hiding
its death.


A dull sunset
through dirty
window panes
in the studio
smells of quince
and oil paint.

This evening
I invented
the color of your eyes.
I will give you a face.
The yellow curtains
billow in the wind.
High up
the sky is alight
with bats
and early evening stars.

On the marble terrace
pain climbed
on my grandmother's
broken leg
and sensed -
tomorrow the moon will be pink
in the spider web of morning clouds.
Then it knocked -
I let it in
to spend
its sleepless night
in me.

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