Romana Iorga

I folded reality into a neat
       parcel of deceit. A present
              for tomorrow’s
remote self, my most recent
       betrayal. It had to be done.
              The ground was glutinous,
soggy with fear. The air,
       all-starch and no taste.
              Reality scoffed, feigned
indifference, claimed I was
       maladjusted, maladroit, prone
              to malfunctioning.
I told it to shut up and stop
       spinning out of control, the way
              a top spins when left
to its own devices.
       The trouble with reality is
              that it loves constraints.
The tighter the grip, the more
       pleasurable the choke.
              I knew that before I started
breaking bones, so that my limbs
       would curl into a portable
              coffin. To minimize
my carbon footprint, I thought,
       while (in reality)
              I was merely shrinking.
When the pain faced its last straw,
       reality came into my hands.
              Not like a pigeon,
homing in, but like a raindrop,
       falling inevitably
              towards the sky.