BY NORA NADJARIAN
He has returned, the world traveller, with a silver cigarette case in his pocket. He shares his dreams, now almost forty years old, and says he misses the sea. Sometimes he mixes water with salt and drinks it, and sometimes he pretends he is swallowing it, and drowning. At other times, he takes out a cigarette, lights it, disappears behind the slow smoke. In a dream, I touch his beard and he kisses my hand which turns into ash. In another dream, I steal his cigarette case, empty it of its contents and press it to my heart. It feels cold against my skin, like a stethoscope. There are five cigarettes on the floor.
Nora Nadjarian is a poet and writer from the island of Cyprus. She is the author of three collections of poetry and a book of short stories, Ledra Street. Her work has been published in Cyprus, Israel, the UK, the USA and elsewhere, most recently in “Litro” magazine, Metazen, 7 x 20 and PicFic. A chapbook of her short stories is forthcoming from Folded Word in 2011.
A-Minor 
nice work, nora. this is cool and warm at the same time – love it. the five cigarettes at the end are like a hand on the ground groping for the meaning of relationships. i might be overinterpreting here, of course 😉
Love this. Really love this.
I can’t pretend to have the right interpretation of this but it appeals to all my senses. It has the positive incoherence of a dream… and it is beautiful.
dreamy and lilting, a wonderful piece
I liked the dream-like feel to this piece and for someone who has been living overseas for the past 21 years, something I can identify with.
Brilliant piece. Thanks for the great read.