Blagovesta Momchedjikova
 

Four Poems
 
 
 

screaming on the williamsburg bridge our feet bathing in snow waiting the train tracks above throbbing   a crack -- the train bullets the sky -- sprawled underneath we grin with delight our game about to begin   a dark red flood of air from the center of him  bursts out trashing the snow scorching my skin racing away  with the train   i gape mute after the scream stained with  track dirt his face -- an unknown  mouth my eyes buried in it ***         *** I don’t beg I collect pennies from  the street I don’t beg I collect slip-away change from  a pocket,  a purse, or a hand lost coins I collect like ripe grapes -- ruby  and fresh -- around cars buses and bikes. I pile  them all  in my shoes like little lavas they  warm up my toes, arch, heels then suck at  the sweat  of my  feet,  falling  asleep.  and I  stride --  my shoes   two ships heavy  with load, heavy with luck from the dirt of the  street . . .  sometimes the pennies  are stuck, sealed  by a truck.  and sometimes I can’t I can’t  collect . . . I don’t  feel bad when I  bend to pick up  a penny  and I can’t.  it’s not  ripe yet.  I don’t beg.  ***     *** between changing streetlights and unknown coats this morning with wholes in your gloves and a shabby green scarf on  you walk beside me. ***                 *** the man who died in the  street today ironed gray pants, light blue shirt, a purple mouth gaping after the  runaway soul,  eyes full of steel. poor man, who will call your wife and tell her?  and how? will she cry?  faint? and your children? in other cities, countries, continents? will they sign in  pain, embarrassed because you died in front of strangers, or in relief because strangers held a mirror to your   breathless mouth? and who will warm the sheets on your side of the bed tonight? why this hot day? why this street? why now? why in front of me? he has passed away, passers-by say and walk on, uncertain: what are they having for dinner? dreaming tonight? wearing  tomorrow? will you men make love to your women tonight as if your mouths will be breathlessly purple  tomorrow? will you  women give in  to your men as if    your eyes will be filled with steel  tomorrow? and little kids,  will you play your boom-boxes louder tonight, to prove that little kids don’t end up  like that, lying  dead in the streets? and you, who are  watching the dead body now and can’t take your eyes off of the  clenched fists: how do  you know that if a certain crowd gathers around a lifeless body on a  certain street tomorrow, that    lifeless  body  is not you?  ***

  (c)Blagovesta Momchedjikova 2002