Poems by Eve Dineva

Pic by Ingo Joseph



My New Home’s Inhabitant

Dusty sunlight crawls
flat on the wall
skipping the cracks
or falling deeply inside them.
My eyes catch the edge
of this lazy, auburn stream
before it sinks in the paint
and soaks in the concrete beneath
so that everything turns grey again.
The sunbeam becomes part of the room.
Part of the house.
But it’s the absence of colour
it’s the gold turned grey
that eats up my mind,
thundering in my skull
while I just sit here
on the creaky old chair
not even moving
not even waiting to hear
what God’s plan is.


Animals Don’t Have Fathers

Dusty sunlight breaks through
the thin glass
to land on an empty corner of the table
where my mom no longer
places cutlery
although up till last Tuesday
she used to.
I chase last night’s dinner slice
of my frozen Margarita
and glance at the kitten we picked
from the street the other day
and I’m wondering if her teeth
are big enough
to break through the hard crust I left
for her
and whether if I do so
she’ll climb the chair
and take the vacant spot.


About the Author

Eve Dineva, from Bulgaria,  is a a bi-lingual author of short stories and novels. She has won a number of contemporary fiction contests held in her country and is currently working on a new anthology of short stories. Her poems have appeared in Asian Cha : Literary Journal, Ethel, Gulmohur and others.