PART OF WHERE THE POEM CAME FROM
Emotions: Hope, melancholy, connectedness
A memory and sounds I heard were Romanian pop songs from my parents youth
LETS NEVER FORGET TO LOVE THE ROSES
My friend sends me her parents’
favourite song. It sounds like a tango
from their youth in Romania. Days when a
dictator ruled and the living room was a ballroom
In her home, on the other side of the world
nothing is lit, not even the lights, and the picture
frame where their portrait sits rests in her lap.
Outside it is spring, or the hint that
something could change. What was buried
under ice, is surfacing –
buds, old dog shit, plastic bags and lost keys.
When she packed up their house
she held objects to remember
them by. An ashtray, a teacup.
Memories lay in the weight
and shape of things.
Fingers feel their way over strings,
play songs we knew and songs
in our bodies.
The streets are strange and silent.
Walks reserved for dogs who sense
the world is pausing a while,
lift a leg to pee
sniff the ground as though to say
it’s all here, it’s all here
beneath our feet.