You can’t know for sure
When hope really dies
Or if it dies last
But only feel
That it defers its big plans
For an undefined future.
And because
This future itself
Is also in the future
Your fingers have learned
How to sift every scrap of coincidence
Then sew the remnants together.
Your new omnipurpose mantle‘s filaments
Personate biased concepts
Embroiled in street dances
For bullets and cats.
In a glass factory
Your jar is ready
Waiting for coins
To buy your reciprocal makeshift bliss.

Every Saturday
At night
I practice architecture
With toothpicks.
I build harpooned walls
Through which
The currents imbricate standpoints.
My feathered guards
Sleep in the pyxidium of hope
Emitting tangy pheromones
To mold an imago.
On the pristine bedding
Split wine insists on atonement.
Sleep’s wandering somewhere.
My dowry, locked away,
Remains a velleity on vel(l)um.
The world deciphers genes
In an attempt to prove
Lux in tenebris.

Vyarka Kozareva holds a master’s degree in engineering and one in economics. Her work has appeared in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Ariel Chart, Poetry Pacific, Basset Hound Press, Bosphorus Review of Books, Mad Swirl, and  is forthcoming in Abstract: Contemporary Expressions, Ann Arbor Review, Triggerfish Critical Review, and Juste Milieu Lit.She lives in Bulgaria with her husband and adopted pets.


These poems are part of our ongoing series exploring isolation, exile, and “The Everyday Pandemic.” Throughout this series it is our hope to capture the daily toll of life through the pandemic from the perspective of writers and artists who are familiar with the experience of isolation or exile. With this in mind we’ve collected stories, poems, nonfiction essays, and digital art from writers and artists from all walks of life and from all around the globe.

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