March 15, 2015 by The Citron Review
by Ana Prundaru
East of tired porch lights, morning tenderness adds charm to the train’s ripped curtains. I collect antique postcards in a skirt that aches onto my shaved legs. If only, I listened to their wisdom.
The seats smell of bird-melt; a mix of burned rubber and expired turkey sandwich. Window breeze billows my shirt into a circus tent, inviting to dream dreams that bite chunks off the ceiling. Between dawn and silence I need to light up infinity in my lungs.
New lips feel like pressed oleander and they say things such as: when you are at the edge of a canyon, march proudly, as peacocks do. Forgive those who exposed you, as you sail to the pool of shadows. The last slug is the prelude of disaster.
You inspire me to stretch my wings as wide as they go, especially when the hit man is crouching behind us. We are no different from fruit doves, you know? You say.
I say: Title your life the way you want, but let me say this: everyone chants away their
heartbeats for candied apple-seeds. This is your scene now; stay free on the inside.
Ana is a translator based in Switzerland. Her writing and art have appeared in such publications as Fjords Review, A-Minor Magazine and Inky Needles. A chapbook ‘One Lover, Four Sinners and Three Time Travelers’ is forthcoming from Etched Press. For further information, visit https://posthaltelei.wordpress.com.