Full Circle

The weight of my head as I stare
at the ceiling, then slowly turn
to look at my son taking his sleepy steps into the night.
Or is it me, maybe
it’s my father asking me to remember
when he was like me,
but he says it’s when I was in his shoes. His words are words
of love, but they are also meant as words that will chastise the present.

I wait for him to look back, maybe
in approval, or maybe to let me know he’s okay
and wants me to move on because he’s moved on.

My mouth opens to say those words, but those words are already in my death bed.
I remember my age, but my mind wants to know the feeling
of saying those final words,
looking adoringly at loved ones
and saying…

We were once young.

— Mircea Sauciuc


There is nothing like a fig which has wept honey.
Amber would die a thousand deaths
to live just once like this:
sweetened drop against the tongue,
honey-colored, hard as sap,
holding to its form,
there is, I tell you, no other world,
and there is nothing like a fig
which has wept honey—except perhaps a fig which is
preparing to weep honey,
body grows heavy
as a swollen breast,
readying itself
for loss.


it was a flower once, it was one of a billion flowers
whose perfume broke through closed car windows,
forced a blessing on their drivers.

then what started behind grew swollen, as we do;
grew juice instead of tears, and small hard sour seeds,
each one bitter, as we are, and filled with possibility.

now a hole opens up in its skin, where it was torn from the
branch; ripeness can’t stop itself, breathes out;
you can’t stop it either, you breathe in:

such loss transmuted into fruit; grown edible, grown sweet.

— Mircea Sauciuc


I was a dry chasm,
a gully, a gorge,
an arid desert,
a cold rock quarry,

Then you came,
all fish and tail
swimming up
to hook me.

You mouthed slowly
through water
as I looked up in awe
from the hole of my dry cave.

You shed your scale cloak
and peeled off my dismay
to meet me within the swaying depths
of Your Ocean.

My heart salty tight,
you tapped at my chasm
waves murmuring from your chest
to finally flood me…

Pools of you.
Filling my hollow.

— Mircea Sauciuc

I am in heaven, hence free to live
by heart, to ad lib as I caress.
A soul is light when full,
heavy when vacuous.
My soul is searching. Not afraid
to dance the agony alone,
for I was born wearing your burden,
will come from the dead with that on my shoulders.

— Mircea Sauciuc

Dreaming In Pieces

We’re all broken in some way. Many are great at masking it, though. And maybe we’re all great at masking that brokenness.

Some become broken day by day, while some were broken by others in the past and just remain that way. When something’s broken, you cannot further damage it. Damage is damaged, just like love is pure. Just like you.

You’re kind. The way you softly close your eyes, soaking up the sun makes me feel as if you and I are the only ones alive. I live through you. And you through me. Broken. Just like the dream. We’ve always said, if things we only different or met at another time. But the glue that holds us together doesn’t adjust to time. I think what we mean to say is, if we’d met in another dimension, simultaneously. Oh, the times we’re sharing. Here. And there.

Happily. Ever. After.

— Mircea Sauciuc

A Long Struggle

An old piece from school that I had dug up in a file. Academically this was a fine piece, but today I’m ambivalent to it; there’s something new that needs to come through it. This is the beauty of holding on to the past as sentiment. We are constantly reminded of not only the way we used to be, but how the world was shaped through our eyes. No one way is right, just like no one way is wrong. It just is. Enjoy.


The story of rain
begins inside a person
who has survived.

We want to know
that not having enough
will be okay.

The spin of a fan is summer
sleeping, dark-green light
from old glowing.

We want to know
years out, our lives
like violins or new bread.

And now grief-rain falls
through leaves and ruins,
through mind this rain

and each cell of blood, rain
falling mind down through
self, rain down to ground

into ground, rain falling
ground from light through
light, into ground.

— Mircea Sauciuc

From Dusk & Fog

Above the city the sky
was grey like a dead bride
and oftentimes the birds
perished by loneliness
with tousled feathers
on the street of ice
where the street lights
were on all day long
but the dusk filtered into
the houses under the doors
and the housewives got tired
of washing it up and
they had to put out the kitties
to the backyards
because they made
such a big mess
with their foggy hair.

Our life was like living in a hat
and we tried in vain to peep out
we couldn’t see its other shore.

— Mircea Sauciuc