Seventeen

Ana Prundaru

 

Nose powdered, like you’re an unburdened fruit

you flirt your seventeen-year-old heart into speeding tickets

and the morning puts her hand out, shape shifting

writing through you in the dust: ça fait mal

Do not worry if your breath tastes like you are breaking

what breaks is asphalt and the morning

undulates slippery down your coat

 

A nurse scolds you for throwing up the pills again

you try to locate the electricity in you

clearly you’re out-of-synch; only one eye burning

the lack of clothes suggests you’re a love child

albeit one who forgets how to swallow pills

 

After-morning lull and machines bruise with vital signs,

you crush the pills in yoghurt like a free spirit

if only flipping over earthquake-plagued geography was that easy

smiles are almost creatures of folklore

instead of lipstick, you draw fake freckles under your eyes

and single handedly bring back the bed head look

 

You’re seventeen at every rush hour

looking through alleys for the time lost

that laughs behind your back

still blaming mornings, which fade in a blur

orange-ripening, to the street next to you

 


Ana Prundaru is a multidisciplinary artist living in Switzerland. She has been published in The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Thrice Fiction, 3:AM Magazine, CALYX and Kyoto Journal, among other places. Her latest poetry collection “Anima” is forthcoming from dancing girl press.