Doppelgänger
I envy the tree for growing its leaves
without guilt. For pushing roots
into soil without fear. In a parallel
world, an identical me
has already put her kids to bed
and is writing. Her house is clean.
Her dog, well-trained. Dinner
was good and nutritious. The kids
ate their veggies without complaining.
We exchange dreams sometimes.
She dreams of my life and shudders.
I dream of hers and sink into
the ground. She and I like to go
out at night and look at the moon.
Her sky is no different than mine,
but her moon glows brighter.
She speaks and her moon answers.
I speak and my moon hides
behind a cloud. We both love a good
cry, though, if you ask me, she has
little to cry about. She finds me
intolerant. I find her stuck up.
Sometimes we hate each other’s guts.
Then the moon calls and we grow
silent. She glides through her
luxuriant garden in a diaphanous
nightgown. I stomp through
dusty weeds in my boots. Her moon
sends down a shimmering rope,
pulls her upward through the branches.
My moon decides it’s time
for an eclipse. Earthbound, I am
resigned to my fate. Someone
must carry the brunt of imperfection.
Each night, like a dumb, moon-
struck beast, I show up for the task.
without guilt. For pushing roots
into soil without fear. In a parallel
world, an identical me
has already put her kids to bed
and is writing. Her house is clean.
Her dog, well-trained. Dinner
was good and nutritious. The kids
ate their veggies without complaining.
We exchange dreams sometimes.
She dreams of my life and shudders.
I dream of hers and sink into
the ground. She and I like to go
out at night and look at the moon.
Her sky is no different than mine,
but her moon glows brighter.
She speaks and her moon answers.
I speak and my moon hides
behind a cloud. We both love a good
cry, though, if you ask me, she has
little to cry about. She finds me
intolerant. I find her stuck up.
Sometimes we hate each other’s guts.
Then the moon calls and we grow
silent. She glides through her
luxuriant garden in a diaphanous
nightgown. I stomp through
dusty weeds in my boots. Her moon
sends down a shimmering rope,
pulls her upward through the branches.
My moon decides it’s time
for an eclipse. Earthbound, I am
resigned to my fate. Someone
must carry the brunt of imperfection.
Each night, like a dumb, moon-
struck beast, I show up for the task.
Originally from Chisinau, Moldova, Romana Iorga lives in Switzerland. She is the author of two poetry collections in Romanian. Her work in English has appeared or is forthcoming in various journals, including New England Review, Salamander, Tupelo Quarterly, as well as on her poetry blog.
