The Game by Iulia Bercescu
The Game by Iulia Bercescu
poetry
On summer evenings, free from the corrosive grip
of adults, we meet at our usual spot under the mulberry tree,
armed with a stick for digging and a tin mug filled with water,
and watch the ants
fight for their lives with jagged, algorithmic movements,
a sort of cold haste to outwit us, the architects of
sorrow shaped like ditches everywhere. You are
quiet, hardly breathing, face bent so low to the ground where two ants
link up as if taking counsel, I could mistake them for an eyelash. No joy is
ever pure. Now your left sleeve blows up in the warm breeze
and I try not to look. A year ago,
the sleeve would have had an arm would have
had a hand, like other children, like me. A year ago, you were not yet
a hero, like the papers said you were for jumping in
when the bear
charged between bars and snatched your little brother. They say
you didn’t have much choice but fight, and losing, trade in
your own arm. In my head, the scene is sticky
and redwashed. I should know if I asked, but I never
do. At last, more ants join the chain, their bodies a sort of living raft.
It’s always a relief,
catching the moment when they flee
and take up their old trail. It must be getting late. It’s true that
children grow up watching others struggle and, sometimes, live.
Iulia Bercescu (she/her) is a Romanian-Irish emerging poet currently based in Dublin, Ireland. She has previously lived in Romania, Malaysia, Belgium and Spain, experiences that have shaped her curiosity about places and her fascination with language and the meeting point between the uncanny and the everyday. She holds an MA in Art History and when she isn't thinking about art or books, she is probably eating cookies.
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Jelly Squid - Issue 4: MENDING - January 2026