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has become the day’s Dadaist crack,

and your ears, the single Romanian pair in the room

have grown enormous.

The face carnation, the throat a locked gun,

and the final chimes of derision or shame

hit against your tympani

like droplets of rain on the windshield

in traffic, after school

as Mama drives you home.

Now whenever someone asks where you’re from,

your own eyes are factory-glazed

with a protective layer of irony

-- it makes for a charming, exotic effect,

someplace between Latin and Slavic,

these two prudent agate stones.

But in the evening,

after you’ve returned to your counterfeit home,

you lie in the dark,

and watch Nadia’s Perfect Ten

on YouTube

granulated by pixels

and time

the golden bird still lovely

after its desecration.


Andreea Iulia Scridon studies Creative Writing at St. Anne’s College, Oxford. She writes poetry and fiction, and translates from Romanian to English. Her work has appeared in Asymptote JournalWorld Literature TodayWildCourtE·ratio Poetry JournalHarana Poetry, and elsewhere. She is an editor at Asymptote and E·ratio. This poem is part of a forthcoming ‘Romanian Sequence.


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