Make Haste Slowly

Gheorghiță Mircea
I'm losing my memory, but the rituals remain. When it rains, the puddles reflect the red streetlights. I always take the same dingy room, with its iron bed and sour-smelling, stained wallpaper. I watch her undress, roll down her stockings, lay them over the back of the chair, then come lie beside me. It's cold, my head hurts, I don't feel like doing anything, she says. It's fine, I say. We smoke in the dark. It's raining, it looks like a painting, faces glowing red in the flicker of cigarette embers. How are the kids? They're fine. In the morning I give her money to buy milk for the cat. And bread? Yes, get bread too.
 
 Sorin Rizeanu
Daddy's in a rush tonight. No filthy whispers, just the reek of vodka and his shadow falling over me. I stare at the smoke-stained ceiling, each heartbeat dragging like a scream drowned in fat. When he zipped up he grinned. See that you don't let something slip to your mom. Stop crying, it's not like I killed you. But the way his rot seeps slowly beneath my gooseflesh makes me wish he had. It hurts like he ripped off a bandage made of my own flesh. Slowly, Daddy. Please, slowly.
 
 Paul Dârvariu
Name's Ivan Melkovich, certified drunk, World champ in vodka drinking and crawling on all fours. Well, I used to do triple jumps in the pigsty too, but gave it up, due to lack of pig. What was I saying? Right. If you see my wife, Mașa, tell her not to bother with dinner. The road home is frozen solid. I've climbed it five times and slid back down on my ass every single time. I'm in no rush. I'm waiting for sunrise. Maybe then this damned ice will let me through.

 
(Translated by Maria Loredana Constantin / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by prof. dr. Nadina Vișan / Edited by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)