2 Poems by Ana-Maria Prundaru

Fourth Floor

when the typhoon comes  
she steps outside herself, drones formless
above people, who clear black waters
off the streets
the tide is thick-lipped and ugly
she tunnels her through roofs
on a gamble with kites
a wave licks blood from her lips
so she slides back inside
her heart and across rice fields, her back turns
against voices: low roars
fencing small lives
she curls, misplaced and spattered with sand
and saltwater
goes asleep inside an aquarium hotel
don’t disturb her, unless you’re lying
about ocean-dressed fires
there is nowhere else for words to go


One Day, Yellow

I fractured the surface of the desert once
pressed my ear to its mustard honey
glazed chest, came out the other side

I rode on a bicycle, blue afraid
to fall down the catacombs, dress
and undress in front of the metal bars

I burned and escaped the shaven sunlight
if I grew straight from his canvas
grew straight and leaped past the painter’s
beer gaze, would he brush me past lantern rain?

I rode on a bicycle, rusty, finding
faces in puddles, bakers in catacombs
bakers prepare oven-baked bananas

I found myself in equator’s kitchen,
hair upside down, music on the walls
dress swaying on the clothesline

I rode on a bicycle, yellow, closing my eyes
because the aftermath waters itself
there is no fear in not remembering my face
when I fall behind skeleton smiles.


Ana Prundaru is from Bucharest, Romania. She has recently placed work in Off the Coast, Bear Review and Hedgerow. A chapbook of found poems is forthcoming from SOd Press. Visit her at www.anaprundaru.wordpress.com.

Elijah Tubbs