"Untitled" by Ana Prundaru
Night Currents
At the bridge a train passes through my center,
a meteor splits the sky into two darknesses,
without direction a blue zipper grinds its teeth.
When the bike messenger came with our papers
we had to tell him he was centuries too late.
History had closed the book, the alphabet changed.
Now when the river eddies into noirish snakes,
we do not fear it. We still do not understand it,
but we care less and less. One day it will empty.
June Sylvester Saraceno
At the bridge a train passes through my center,
a meteor splits the sky into two darknesses,
without direction a blue zipper grinds its teeth.
When the bike messenger came with our papers
we had to tell him he was centuries too late.
History had closed the book, the alphabet changed.
Now when the river eddies into noirish snakes,
we do not fear it. We still do not understand it,
but we care less and less. One day it will empty.
June Sylvester Saraceno
June Sylvester Saraceno is the author of two poetry collections, Of Dirt and Tar, and Altars of Ordinary Light, as well as a chapbook of prose poems, Mean Girl Trips. Her work has appeared in various journals including Poetry Quarterly, Southwestern American Literature, and Tar River Poetry. She is English program chair at Sierra Nevada College, Lake Tahoe, as well as MFA faculty and founding editor of the Sierra Nevada Review. For more information visit www.junesaraceno.com
Ana Prundaru is a writer/artist who roams the globe sometimes. Most recently, she has contributed writing and art to SmokeLong Quarterly, CutBank, Flyway and Rio Grande Review. She lives in Switzerland and can be found online at https://posthaltelei.wordpress.com/.
