New York City skyline at night




Claudia Serea

The Moon

I come to look at you at night
to see if you're still
curled on your cot.

Thousands of years,
I witnessed
the butchering of men
called history.

I can't help anyone.

I rise,
stir the howls in wolfs,
and swell the tides,

but I can't pull you out
from your brother's
murderous arms.

I can only hold
your hope

in a tin cup
in the sky.


The Small Stone

All you need
is a stumble

even you earn
a boot
in the ribs.

And you pick me up,
hide me
under your tongue,
and carry me inside.

I'm your phone,
your postcard,
your smoke signal,

the only one who can talk
through ceilings and walls

and send a coded message
to the man released today:

Ring the bell
to my mother's house

and tell her
I'm alive.



Back to Poetry