Ana Prundaru is a translator and postgraduate student, who has contributed artwork
and words to various venues, including Crack the Spine, Feminist Wire, 3:AM, Off the
Coast and Gravel. Her poetry chapbook is forthcoming from Etched Press.
We drive to the pier, leave a trail
of gun powder, the nerve it takes to undo
Strangled in the back
seat, hips pressed against glass, I
think of waterfront inhales, how we gather
shells, confessions quaking teeth.
A moth swims in hunger, delivers glitter balls,
wings exhausting momentum, tepid and
As it collapses near my ear, it's reckless
enough to trace headlights past
Air passes through us, grows a bridge
from the wrong place to the right time.
to kiss you here so bad, but the sand
on the moth's wings holds unexpected relief.
Love Letter and Dead Fly
I look for brochures from ballroom days. Fingers
turn sore, eyes blank at a dead fly on a love letter.
Old doves wait motionless, as morning unfolds,
coating the stitches on my lips golden-rose.
When unfortunate algorithms catch up with me,
I burn through paper trees. and whitewater patterns fill the space
where a mistaken moon once muffled my lungs.
Not a thing is crawling beneath the sky, beside
nostalgia of a past oppression. I nib on sugared bread crumbs,
unbind the love letter from the dead fly, then dive
uphill, toward the border.
Those Kinds of Flames
My son fetches firewood, glues leaves
in voids to a golden mane, the way he grows
into himself, light-bodied, an hour before dusk,
somewhere between middle of life and portable ribs,
an unspoken urge of loving summer tongues.
His son collects the day's oranges,
assembles them to endless cells, sweet and pulpy,
he breathes the chorus of the season,
nibbles on tails of diamond smugglers, their mysterious
pockets of yesterdays.
Meanwhile I take to the woods, amicably magnetizing
sun'cs reflections. Between craw feet, my body goes, green
and creeping like larvae born upward, every inch perfection. I hover
near the threshold to a new moon, till flames stick their tongues
at the night and my skin un-frosts bluebirds.
How spacious the room feels sometimes, like we are
more than extras in a cheap play. Like we have
some kind of special intimacy. I say, ease
me into the cold and you bite my eyelids, lull
the drunk blue in my cells.
On Sundays I spray Febreze in the garage and
a paper thin meadow sacrifices stumps so I can
wear sturdy thumbs. You must try it, I say,
like I'm Youtube repeat.
But your nose is buried in the papers, from
1977. Want to talk statistics? Risks are high as
ever but then cradles are cheaper now so let's
do this. Letís not take up space anymore.
Then you stick your finger through the bullet
holed window, see the blood on
the porch, shudder at the dirt bike that shadows
against the cracks of lawn, so I quietly remove
my bags from the door.
And we're taking space for now, feeding ourselves
another week, chewing chemicals that
paper forward to our brains, a lovehouse inside a
lovehouse, inside a powerhouse, inside a gashouse.
Back to Front.