If There Is Something to Desire, 9, 17, 18

by Vera Pavlova


9

I broke your heart.
Now barefoot I tread
on shards.


17

Why is the word yes so brief?
It should be
the longest,
the hardest,
so that you could not decide in an instant to say it,
so that upon reflection you could stop
in the middle of saying it.


18

—Sing me The Song of Songs.
—Don't know the words.
—Then sing the notes.
—Don't know the notes.
—Then simply hum.
—Forgot the tune.
—Then press my ear
to your ear
and sing what you hear.

Sundays

We kiss. In this dark, early morning, birds chirping manic across the air, the world wakes from its dewy slumber. We are barefoot on the lawn. The grass begin to sway in the breeze, and at once we are by the sea, waves coming to us by the shore, one by one. Our feet face each other, slightly. My arms enfold softly your chest, as my hands run through the smooth of your back, along your wavy hair. A tear runs through your cheek. It’s Sunday, you whisper, the sun lazily skimming through the façade of your house, tainting sepia its white and blue. Come, you say, holding my hands, I’ve breakfast for two.