night and two other poems





Untangle the stars
from your eyes, wedge loose
that moon from your throat.
Stop choking on the night.

Go inside. Peel the skin
off potatoes, simmer
onions on the skillet. Crush
garlic with a knife. Worry

about the darkness around her
eyes another night.



That knowledge
Of a heart

Surgeon, slumbers
Like a nomadic ghost

With a scalpel
Between its teeth

In what was
A body

dark matter 


This is not me
but the lifelessness
of winter. Silence

presses down
like a thumb
on bruise and you
are no longer around.

We will dance
all night at our wedding
is what you said. What
do you call the space

ever expanding
between stars? My tongue
and heart
are further and further

apart. I want
to grab
the moon
from the sky

and twirl it
around my finger
like a ball, light spilling
between fissures.

And then we can
dance among the flakes.
But we are no longer
innocent. Snow

slushes beneath
my feet
and branches
pine trees

from above
the weight
of whiteness.

Daniel Iacob was born in Suceava, Romania in 1988, one year before the Romanian Revolution took place and the communist regime was overthrown. When he was nine years old his family moved to America, and he has lived in New York City, Seattle, and Springfield, Missouri. He has a MFA in poetry from University of Idaho and is currently residing in Moscow, Idaho where he is a wildland firefighter.