moldova

Rowan Tate

it is a country of held breaths
and the earth is ripe for threshing.
summer is made entirely of sky
in suspended cadence, there is
no way you can paint it, the itching of
straw and skin, those stir-sore arms and
the sun-faded blues of village homes
like albastrele in the fields.
a bunică tells me here the air
is thick with the tears god keeps,
this is a hemisphere clogged
with dreams. all our children
are leaving, their accent changing
and their faces becoming pixels.