The Necessity of Being Lonely

Romana Iorga

Find it, the name
you lost last summer.
Swaddled in green,
her name.

You thought darkness
might cradle what’s left
of that story, but you dip
a shadow body in moonlight
and disappear.

The night is too narrow
for this grief.

Death awaits among
little things—a hairpin,
a worn pair of slippers, the red
pajamas. Death is
as inconsequential
as a sneeze.

No point in waiting. No one
will bury her head in the green
leaves of your hands.

You must welcome silence,
its body pressing on yours
like an aged lover.

Large raindrops pelt the empty
nest and you see
yourself as you were—
small, yearning for greatness.

In the forest, even
the stunted trees
grow upward.


Author Bio

Originally from Chisinau, Moldova, Romana Iorga lives in Switzerland. She is the author of two poetry collections in Romanian. Her work in English has appeared or is forthcoming in various journals, including New England Review, Gulf Coast, Redivider, as well as on her poetry blog at