3 Poems
Adela Sinclair
Adela Sinclair is a Romanian-American poet, translator, and teacher, fluent in English, French, and Romanian. Her debut chapbook LA REVEDERE is forthcoming July 8, 2022 from Finishing Line Press. It can be ordered here.
Adela is co-founder and poetry editor of the emerging literary magazine Unbound Brooklyn and volunteers with Ugly Duckling Presse. She holds a BA in French Culture and Civilization from SUNY Albany with additional coursework at the Sorbonne in Paris, an MA in Education from Hunter College (NYC), and an MFA in Creative Writing/Poetry from St. Francis College (Brooklyn).
Website: adelasinclairpoet.com
IG: @adelasinclairpoet
Twitter: @adelasinclair
Topogan (Slide)
At dedi’s butcher shop, after the slaughter on the first floor, the meat slides through the opening to the basement, to the room with the oversized scales. The men hang the slabs on ceiling hooks in the gigantic fridge. Sounds cannot be heard through the fridge doors, my brother and I play hide and seek, screaming when we come upon each other. In our school uniforms, we jump through the opening onto the bloody slide and end up on our bottoms in the weighing room. In our blood stained clothes, we leap on the scales. The needle points frantically right, both of us on the scale bouncing with laughter, until one of us slides off the wet platform.
Farfurie (Plate)
It flies,
white, round,
no longer
with the purpose
to serve or hold.
When it hits
it breaks
into pieces
that spread
sharp,
unrelenting,
unforgiving
like words.
How will our family
sit again,
eat from what is
left of the set,
without remembering
the broken sister?
Grădină (Garden)
I have had a garden of my own for 13 years. I tend to it. We never see the beginning and the end of anything. The stitched yellow numbers on my uniform sleeve, ever-present. To the wolves! They devour the numbers. Our German Shepard, Nero, is feasting. The bowl from which he eats is not broken. The art of precious scars. I take my friend to the attic. You, my brother, break my head by throwing a brick. Golden joinery and repair work. My index finger slips into the hole in my forehead, then the blood starts gushing. This is what I know of broken bones. It is not the only bone I ever break.
People have been trying to kill me since I was born.
