Lucia Cherciu
Prefiguration
Voting is like telling the universe
that you are here, and this is
where you’re supposed to be.
Voting is like hearing your name
on the lips of adoring family. Only they
know how to say it. Voting
is prefiguration: you make things happen
with words: you create, nurture, nourish.
You plant a forest
for seven generations.
Voting is like hearing the voice
of the saints when you make a choice
and you chance it, you risk it,
knowing everyone you love
gathers in the square downtown:
those who have taken the horses
towards the mountains
and your yet unborn great-grandchildren.
They trust you
the way you trust a bridge:
voting means crossing the river
towards truth-telling,
your neighbors loving you back.
Procession
A woman in trouble went to a crone
still in the dark of dawn
and by dusk
she walked alone.
That time, the woman’s father
brought her home;
he stepped by his horse cart,
hat in hand. Her head
rested on an old tapestry
with faded dahlias.
When the whole village
attended the funeral
and paced behind the ox-drawn cart
decorated with dahlias,
why did women whisper,
untie their black scarves
and tie them back?
Nobody said anything.
In the crowd, the strained
face of the official
sent to sign communist papers,
file a report—
facial muscles chiseled
with foreboding.
"Procession" previously appeared in Train Ride to Bucharest (Sheep Meadow Press, 2017).