Poetry by Adie Margineanu

Adie Margineanu is currently completing her master’s degree in Biomedical Communications at U of T. She’s also a very talented writer. 

Check out some of her poetry below, all untitled pieces. 

somewhere in a quiet room 
with high ceilings and a gentle 
hum of heaters turning on and off, 
a gathering of mothers and grandmothers
knits circle scarves for too-thin girls.
once in a while, ever so gently,
the hum of heaters is really audible caring.  
a television might be on and the pure white,
well you can hear it, the white is sound.  
 
 

the snow doesn’t even blanket the ground.
who knows how to keep anyone warm, anymore.

and i am afraid of slipping. 
once was enough, now twice and three times over in my head.

and i know i won’t see flowers for months.
what is left to run into, now i’m always cold. 

and that dark room belongs to someone else.
she had to bring in the potted plants, nothing survives this season.

 

 

tonight,
i told you people are like buildings;
we aren’t made for long-term, anymore.

we are beautiful at the beginning,
then fade and footsteps
wear us out.

attention spans have been whittled
into small, sharp pins;
succinct and painfully disinterested.

it is indeed that time and place;
we can excise people like tumors,
close browser windows and watch phosphors 
die out.

 

etched into the back of 
the seat in front of me
a plea made up of vinyl upholstery 
& sharpie marker:
“miss me.”

i’d like to believe
someone does.

 

then the bus and the bee
decide to race each other;
they might be brothers.  

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