Ioan Es. POP

iov. iova. iona. ion

in the beginning was the end. then the agony. then the dry land.

then, on november 16, i saw iova passing stooped

through the intersection of victoria with lemnea. it was friday and it

was evening.

now, listen: i had no money and i wanted to forget. i walked up to

iova,

i asked iova for money and iova didn't say a word.

probably he was during his divorce at the time, cause he suddenly took

his crown of thorns in one hand and threw it down as if it were a FUR

cap.

what are you doing? i said. leave him alone, the owl said,

and passed over his head croaking,

leave him alone, it said, resignation is

his pet name.

today i went in for a scan, iova said. i am

the inhabitant of a hole, they saw it clearly inside me.

forget it, i said, they will pull it out somehow, don't

you worry,

they have forceps, they have catgut, they know how to do it,

c'mon, you'd better give me a cigarette.

man, he says, the hole is growing bigger by the day, it has begun to

press upon my lungs

and now is moving on into my liver.

c'mon, then, i say, let's go to the bar, to the berbecul, and we'll

fill it up

and you'll have a sea by dry land.

not now, iova says, it's been months since i've written, i'm not

expecting anyone to come from megara any more.

and every sheet of paper is too thin when i write and it tears

immediately.

look here: i wear gloves not to be be seen, for now

i write straight on my hand: it's my deceased aunt.

i write with difficulty. i jab the tip of the pencil into my skin until

i meet

myself underneath. i write as deep as i feel i should write.

i scratch the tissues, i dig in the veins, i scrape at the bone until i

hear

her coffin penetrated by the graphite.

i'm writing a single letter a day, until i find myself. the rest

is silence. no writing compares with this. then,

until the skin heals above, i write in my palm a mirror image.

that's why my wife left me. writing is painful.

i write until the letter plunges under the flesh. some day i shall be

read

only from inside out. i shall be a book bound in my own skin.

and impenetrable. and when they open me up

i shall move on the other side of myself. i shall always

remain on the inside. they'll search. i shall laugh.

so, c'mon, let's go to the megara or the berbecul, old pal,

but today is the last time, 'cause tomorrow

can't ever be tomorrow.

the wolf entered the living room in the middle of the day.

he sniffed with tenderness the diapers of the newly born baby

and stayed for minutes on end

staring at the paintings hanging on the walls.

then, he and the baby looked at each other

brotherly and complicitly,

the baby's hair was gray and his skin wrinkled

but his thin small hands were shining with freshness.

they both ate from the same plate,

they giggled and winked at each other.

when she entered, the baby was smiling,

his eyes fixed towards the forests.

she thought he was sleeping and welcomed the wolf upon her

with fright and resignation.

Traducerea în limba engleza: Nathaniel SMITH, K SHAVER, Ion CRETU