Faces bowed, children of the Indian subcontinent
swallow naan and pulses, masses filling
holes. I dust off my eyes, imagine
heads building a canvas. An art of a kind, those
sticky sweet images of past travels,
they reflect the sun in wild hues, on garbage clad
soils. I touch, where my prince’s palms
once sunk to my hips, fingers dropping to steal
my attention away from the roots. I
trace my lover’s moaning vine of bones
to bones, delicately scorched around hungry mountains.
Wrecked, but still here, you come to wrap
a protective shield around the purple
blanket, my silenced skin. Outside at the coal
factory: chomp of gravel, masses filling holes.
Ana Prundaru lives a stone’s throw away from the birthplace of milk chocolate. Her work has been included in SmokeLong Quarterly, Wilderness House, Vagabond Journey, Kyoto Journal, Litro and elsewhere. Find her at www.anaprundaru.com.
Artwork: Leslie Ann O’Dell