Valya Dudycz Lupescu

one poem

Midsummer Nocturne

My mouth still full of poetry, I fall asleep,
despite my mother’s warnings, 
loose-leaf pages for pillows under tangled couplets in my hair,
haiku soft against my cheek, ode between my thighs,
a sonnet in my fist. 

Sharp tails of midnight dreams poke me awake.
I walk barefoot into my grandfather’s garden, 
shedding schemes and syllables among the tomatoes, cabbages, beets.

My shadow stretches, slides across an oak, 
breaks a branch to strike against the surface of the moon—
ignites the kind of warped light 
that uncovers new universes 
and verses long forgotten under floorboards.

I have so much thirst, 
but the song pouring from the lips of my grandmother’s ghost 
turns to salt on my tongue,
and when the crow cries my father’s name,
omens join like chains around my ankles.

Around me the ghosts gather, 

trace patterns in the grass, beg remembrance,
float away like dandelion seeds 
to root in the sky like stars.

I could set them free 
if only I could read the words, say their names, 
send them home, hold him here,

but my hands are only a dream my grandfather had,
asleep on a train among corpses,
crying out for someone to teach him how to pray.

Valya Dudycz Lupescu has been making magic with food and words for more than 20 years, incorporating folklore from her Ukrainian heritage with practices that honor the Earth. Valya is the author of The Silence of Trees and founding editor of Conclave: A Journal of Character. Along with Stephen H. Segal, she is the co-author of Forking Good and Geek Parenting (Quirk Books). Valya earned her MFA in Writing from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Most recently, her work has appeared in The Year's Best Dark Fantasy & Horror, Kenyon Review, Culture, Gargoyle Magazine, Gone Lawn, and Strange Horizons. You can find her at vdlupescu.com and on Twitter @valya.