The Dallas streetcar runs between Downtown and Oak Cliff and goes back to 1872 when it was mule-drawn. Nine cars and eighteen mules. I google the one in Bucharest. Born in 1870, drawn by horses. I sip warm beer and listen to the reading. On the lit wooden stage, the Romanian writer wears an intoxicating fuchsia dress, adorned with a wide blue belt and beady necklace. She reads in English with a thick, yet familiar accent. Behind me, two Iranian women in my grad program, are whispering in an elegant Persian. I want another beer, except I’d have to step on people’s toes to walk back to the bar. The funny lady serving is called Juanita. Her almond-shaped, teal glasses make her look sophisticated. I bet she’s read everything in the bookstore, maybe just the good books. The guy next to me barely touched his Paloma, such a waste. The heart Juanita puts into that cocktail. I feel the hum of the streetcar in the sole of my flats. The wet in the air is reeking of early April. We are all swimming inside a snow globe. The writer’s deft fingers keep shaking it, we all wobble inside the womb of language, one big fetus, several hearts.
While attending the Deep Vellum ten-year anniversary party at The Wild Detectives
Clara Burghelea is the author of two poetry collections: The Flavor of The Other (Dos Madres Press 2020) and Praise the Unburied (Chaffinch Press 2021). Her first poetry collection in translation, The Clear Sky, was published this year with Dos Madres Press. Her poems and translations appeared in Gulf Coast, Delos, Mantis, The Los Angeles Review, and elsewhere. She is Review Editor of Ezra, An Online Journal of Translation.