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Buda Pest by Gail Ghai

You are not here by the Danube, that wandering eastern river that kept Buda and Pest apart like lovers who yearningly gaze across its twisting burnt umber waters. Strauss’s blue river that ends in blackness. You are not here above Old Buda,                                                                                         200 meters high on Castle Hill                                                                                    where autumn comes to me in gold leaves of silver birches that jewel the light of late September.                         Birches, silver as your sterling hair, indium fingers slithering through my blondness. You are not here by the Danube where I sip cappuccino and culture beside the Roman bathhouse, but I taste your presence in warm thermal bath air and cinnamon sprinkles— that March morning I made you breakfast, coffee and cinnamon toast with heaps of extra sugar as snow piled around us in clouds of coldness; (sastruga, the Russians call this snow mass) as your warm palms doubled into my skin. Your hands were full of healing.             Drop-by-drop I swallowed your white metaphors, curative as spring changes heat, light, name of our loss. Here by the Danube, call me Night.  It is where I live without you.     

Profile for Burner Magazine

Burner Magazine, issue 01 (September 2010)  

The inaugural issue of Burner Magazine, which aims to take the boring out of the literary and arts scenes.

Burner Magazine, issue 01 (September 2010)  

The inaugural issue of Burner Magazine, which aims to take the boring out of the literary and arts scenes.

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