There Is Always Something Left to Love

Cristina Daniela Dumitru-Pascal
She placed the lump of clay on the wheel and began to shape it. She pampered it and talked to it, asking what it wanted to become. No one heard its answer, but miracle works came out of her hands. This time, she sculpted a heart. She took it out of the kiln. It smelled like scorched earth. And love. She stumbled. She heard the dance of the pieces. She stepped on a shard. She walked toward the window, leaving bloody footprints. Eyes lifted, silent, like a windowless house, she whispered: I'll do it again. And again. Until you understand. I'm blind. This is all I can give. My soul.
 
 Monica Bologa
I stand barefoot on the roof railing. Inside, I've turned off the lights, turned the water off, paid all my bills. My parents are gone. My husband left me. Nothing brings me joy: not the sunrises, not the sunsets, not anything that comes between them. A bird lands on my shoulder. I've run out of love, I tell it without shooing it away. I lean forward and let myself fall. From below, a beautiful man watches me drop. In the last second, his blue gaze saves me. Too bad the bird splattered on the pavement.
 
 Ana-Maria Butuza
I was born in love. First, with my mother's breast. Then, with every new experience. When I discovered poetry, I hunted rhymes day and night. Then I loved prose. Short, because I like the essence. I dabbled in theatre, rehearsing in front of the mirror, but it never touched me like ballet did. That's where the art chapter ended - ten broken toes and a month in the hospital. That's where I met Lili. She'd handle the bedpan, play with the willy, and laugh. We've been laughing together ever since.

 
(Translated by Oana-Elena Dragnea / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)