CUL-DE-SAC

Cul-de-sac

At 2 a.m. the silent flashing

wakes you, you finger the blinds,

does it always have to happen

at night, the red, blue and white

of the ambulance next door

are skating back and forth over

the cul-de-sac, there's still

a good piece of the night left

to sleep, you shut the blinds, lie

in bed, the water is shallow, you

push your way under and the snorkel

keeps leaking.

Two weeks later the front yard

gets a trim, the empty mailbox

is finally fixed, the country club

white sign spells Under contract.

Who's next, better not to

ask many questions, better not

to know them too well,

what could we possibly

have in common.

Purple border

He did as he was told

took off his clothes

put on the gown

climbed on the table

kept on his

briefs his

socks his

watch his

glasses

under the gown his skin

looked for something to do

his eyes loitered

over the gothic diplomas

the anatomy lesson

the bill of rights of the patient

in a purple border

over the field of redshot ranunculi

she entered

turned on the computer

clicked at it

talked

typed

bent over

he wondered

how did her anklet end under her leggings

did she take it off every evening

she listened to his heart

in between beatings

he listened to her

exhalations

her skirt

was all his socked feet could touch

on the surgical little table

only one instrument had to be opened

an eager keen scalpel

then they uncoupled

everything was just fine

she said a little briskly

almost austerely

I'll see you again

same time

same place

next year

the room craved

a glass of water

Sebastian

You won another round and jump

on the flimsy kitchen chair

and do your winning dance

and swing your hips and drop

your pants and slap your buttocks pink

into a cachinnating face

and with both hands you pump

an invisible horn and blow blaring

raspberries and dangle back and forth

a polyphallic African headdress

invisible and waft my way a symbolic or not

fart

and everything says

I'm on the top of the world

this peak is taken baby

my throne will abide forever

while I sing back thy kingdom

will endure before me forever

what other chance do I have

to forever and ever

this moment

I'm your adoring god

knees to chin in the sidecar

of your seven year bluster

as you sonically ascent

through the ever stretching

present

Two Renoirs

There is a room at the Clark with two self-portraits by Renoir.

In one he's young, white-pink, with flaming, dark hair, painted in nervous brushstrokes and scratches, made maybe with the brush handle.

From the other, he looks with sagging eyes. He bears a white beard, and a round, gray hat covers his baldness. Everything glows mutedly, almost out of focus.

The devastation between them.

The phone pings.

Bill must have pulled in the driveway. He came to fix the shed. He must have halted at the sight of the patio between the house and the forest.

He texts:

There is some animal on your patio.

Maybe a beaver.

I can't tell.

It has no head.

There's blood everywhere.

Minutes later:

I'll try to powerwash it.

I won't take pictures.

I don't think you should see this.

__

Note: The Clark is an art museum located in Williamstown, MA: https://www.clarkart.edu/

Stefan Balan is a Romanian-American poet, author of three books of poetry and one of film criticism. His poems appeared in the US, Australia, Sweden, India, South Africa, and Romania. In 2024 he received a first prize from the 3rd Wednesday Magazine and an honorable mention from Passager Journal. He works as an oncologist in the Greater Boston Area. Website: https://www.stefanbalanpoetry.com/.