Mihaela Melnic (Western Voices 2022)

Bio: Mihaela Melnic is author of the bilingual poetry collection "Change of Seasons" and co-author of the book "Evermore" released in September 2021 through 17Numa Press. She lives and writes in Rome, Italy where her prose and poetry evolve and take different shapes with every new life experience. Her work has appeared in various journals and magazines, including Dissident Voice, Spillwords Magazine, Mad Swirl, Lothlorien Poetry Journal and Ariel Chart. For more of Melnic's published work visit her website https://telluricverse.wordpress.com/

Echoing Structure

When we'll have arrived where the sun 
glides behind the mountain's peak

a sweet, crepuscular finger-rays' caress
will be enough for us
as we'll entangle our bodies to nature 
in a rusty dance, 

we'll be way too aware of what real love is
for a mere romantic walz. 

An orgastic cry will be bouncing on the walls 
of alpha to omega cunicular structures of our past 

disfigured, yet mellifluous echoing
as a reminder of youth. 
***


Neverland Wall

For two decades
he stared at life from the stone wall 
of Neverland Café, smiling, 

his teeth falling out one by one - 
I have replaced mine with the desperation 
of who still wants to bite into life, not just look at it.

I once heard him singing about life being more than 
just blue days or sunshine spilling out of the pockets 
of good-hearted passers-by. 

I never told him to move on before he or the wall 
crumbled, lest I would deprive him of his smile 
and be called "witch".
***


Movida

Fragile chalices overflow with virgin 
or intoxicating cocktails, in Roman nights,

our tongues craft kisses and theories about Godfrey's 
cordial and poets
that praised the beauty of maidens on their deathbed,

salami and cheese from other's plates 
may end up in yours - irrelevant;

you've long eyed the Gaeta olives of your neighbour 
longing for yours to be just as firm, swollen and shiny
by the Tiber far from the missiles, 

face mask in the tiny purse, cigarette between 
red-lacquered lips,
thighs wrapped in black leather, 

and you want the pulp and juice of everything 
wishing to forget what the Russians do to the Ukrainians, 
or the Talibans to the Afghans or Jerry to Tom, 

in nocturnal anonymity, 
and you trust the moon and the stars
that will always shine through it all. 
 

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