Our life is boring.
The fat caterpillar makes a ring
on your walking stick. I want
to be consumed by wind,
the smell of oyster mushrooms
and red horses. When folded, things become
unrecognizable like hotdog paste.
Thank god for the unresolved.
The corner of your mouth
a heron holding lavender in its beak,
headed east and west
where the unripe pumpkins jump
in the oven by themselves, covered
in paint chips. The old house
they uprooted from the stinging nettle garden
in Brooklyn delivered itself
like a baby, like a block of ice
sure of itself. Its roof was sleeping
swans laying eggs to feed the ghosts
trapped there from the era of edible roses.
They press the chickens
when they pluck them
and break the wishbone.
Margarita Delcheva is a graduate of the NYU Creative Writing Program. Her recent poems have appeared in Sixth Finch, Fugue, Ep;phany, and Tuesday: An Art Project. The Eight-Finger Concerto, her poetry collection in Bulgarian, was published in Sofia, Bulgaria. Margarita currently resides and teaches in Brooklyn, New York.