The Sound of Ribs Is /
Alina Stefanescu
The last time I saw your coffin, I ticked like those
crickets we counted, our backs
pressed, sweating invocations against hot cement.
My daughter's voice is solid aluminum, the hue of
fork before swallowing
entire streets choired by kudzu.
Beaded with green plastic bins.
You left me pinestraw, Cowboy
Junkies, rotting plums, the taste of terror
going metal in a mouth.
The first row of breaths after rain
Dying young, disappearing like leaves from a child's mind
/ A Wren's Nest
The wry village of
my mama's laughter:
it's ribbed little cage.
And rumor twigged
in the wren's reveille.
Ripped from the risk
of running away
is a way of saying
home is sloped
abruptly, a riddle
she left us, a ramp
into ruined tree
maps. Where is
our family. Set the
wrench near
the fulcrum. Tie
the fork to the
dish. The last
one who leaves
is a phantom.
Whose is this
sound, scherzo
of ribs. And the re-
past, this. Abyss.
Alina Stefanescu was born in Romania and lives in Birmingham, Alabama with her partner and several intense mammals. Her writing can be found in diverse journals, including Prairie Schooner, North American Review, FLOCK, Southern Humanities Review, Crab Creek Review, Virga, Whale Road Review, and others. She serves as Poetry Editor for Pidgeonholes, Poetry Editor for Random Sample Review, Poetry Reviewer for Up the Staircase Quarterly, and Co-Director of PEN America's Birmingham Chapter. She was nominated for 5 Pushcart Prizes by various journals in 2019. A finalist for the 2019 Kurt Brown AWP Prize, Alina won the 2019 River Heron Poetry Prize. She still can't believe (or deserve) any of this. More online at www.alinastefanescuwriter.com.