Romana ​Iorga

The Morphology of Shame

​It’s funny how we remember
things we thought safely forgotten,
then share them with strangers.
The other day, I told a passer-by
my strongest emotion was shame.
I’m ashamed to admit it.
Hats off to whomever said it
first: writing poetry is like
washing one’s dirty laundry
in public. I’m up to my elbows
in suds, trying to catch the tail
of an S. It wiggles away,
hides under slippery soap,
its slick, sinuous body coiled
like a spring. Can’t say I have
much more luck with the H.
It’s a ladder with only one rung,
leading to nowhere special.
Hell in a handbasket. Heart
in the doldrums. Headache
with a dash of hypochondria.
Even the A, for all its alpine
scaling potential, is sure
to disappoint. Halfway up
to the apex, the acme, the apogee,
I’m stuck on a ledge, waiting
to be rescued. Which begs
the question, what’s the point
of reaching a summit
if it’s all downhill from there?
The nightmarish M masks
the mournful sounds I make
in my sleep, when the lever
of some fast-moving machine
slips from my grip. There’s
a bottomless pit to fall
endlessly into & hungry maws
raising their teeth to the light.
Then there’s the E, that most
frequently used vowel in English.
Edgy, electric, self-effacing.
Rarely noticed at the end of a word
or a life. Too often it has to die
in order to amaze someone.
Without the E, shame is a sham.
Serpentine. Like that unctuous voice
Eve heard in Eden,
enticing her to take the first bite.

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​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, Gulf Coast, Salamander, as well as on her poetry blog at clayandbranches.com.