Stirred Stillness


I want to put a blanket on the ocean

and line scarecrows to a red-ribonned

trail of open hearts


I unknot each morning to his spongy

presence that dissects the air

where he kissed me determined how I

spelled the future


I loved him on top of a skyscraper

he loved me slippery

scrawled himself on my whittled body


robotic limbs, black and white years

turned from over stimulated billboard

to an emotionless revelation and his silhouette

reduced to air-conditioned squares


probably rebuilding his online world

a bold, colorful traffic jam of messages

that push his chin up high


I drive to a museum by the pier

in the moss room, arrows hang from nightmares

a ghost in a ghost shimmers against light bulbs

in dimensions of a fish tank


I pinch footprints out of fruit-lined carcasses

a heavy floating nest, lumping over fire logs

I promenade by myself by the sound of car alarms


stop in front of a pyramid of pink crabs

sprouting in twilight, embracing each other’s faces

I watch migrating evidences reflected on their shell

the night wall forces itself upon us


angular and homeless

frames my flesh to an empty museum

at least they seem to know where to go from here





The Plasticity of Hurts


his voice stretches you toward clouded windows

white jeans, stilled years

sweetness woven tight into your sharp tongue

you soak up the negatives of

clouds, stacked sloppy

his disappearing is longing

your longing is navigating the effect of missed connections

giving over to shallow beauty

like an unpicked fruit

an orphaned cage

you wear a sunburn over grasshopper chants

scrape off petals from your scalp

someone always cries

when the world re-starts

and another gets ready for celebration

the hurt is there to be enjoyed and passed on

the hurt steals you

opens your pinkish white dress

everyone wants to find private moments

your hurt finds crackling paper hands

smoked misunderstandings

more stairs and walled regrets

enough secrets in crevices to instantly

return to the curve of your hips

your hurt ranges from useless to terrifying

like scratching noises emanating

from an empty medicine cabinet

there is no day that you don’t fall

down the bottom of the sky

and each time he pulls the drumming soil in-between

fills trails with summer tears

your jellyfish limbs nourished by fog in disguise

someone always cries

when the world re-starts







raising wing-less melodies

wolf-eyed hunger reaches inside my mouth

observes the catch and release of veiled

fight companions


little famines hover in the distance

ash trees shivering on winter afternoons

many homes ago, readied graves molded

the medicine woman in me


translating the relentless ghost songs

in the neck of people’s fears

mixing tinctures to soothe the torments of habit

wiping bloodied hands and blessing ordinary bones to graceful lights


muting the bled from the back of the sky

sometimes I dream us to

slender animal spirits

who seek refuge in the storm cellars of our bodies


at dawn, I take myself out to fall from the rhythm

inside dream margins

above me, hidden decades quickening

trickle back into my mother tongue







quiet comes in jaded smiles

flowers wilt by themselves

too slow

I lose myself in the airport

the beauty of this anonymous canyon

reaching behind my eyes

too fast

light-bent planes warm the sky

clouds ricochet to pearls

on my back, the clatter of a string of rosary

too camouflaged

falling facade of an unsung autumn

the maintenance of half-opened windows

orbiting dawns constricting my insides

too effervescent

at take-off, I balance the city

beach the distance with my iphone

this world spills again

in my hand








Ana Prundaru is a Romanian transplant in the birthplace of milk chocolate, who splits her free time between creative endeavors and volunteering for animal welfare causes. Recent work is forthcoming from DIAGRAM and the Journal of Compressed Creative Arts.