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. Somewhere 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.