by Ana Prundaru
In the hull of the liver I touch down and
Tokyo cups me in its palms, my dim pulse
trembling across overflowed ponds.
Green tea vapor, tangled in
moon flower pollens reaches
the loneliest corners, where faces
are layered frozen.
Axolotls and angelfish can’t scream
in the deep neon blue, but they spread variations
of old age like luminescent plankton.
On my first night, its arms open, my soft
skin against concrete diaphragm, sick
birds traveling alleys of glass, calling for
my breaths. Even after I leave, its electrical
charge lingers as a sprinkle of light whitening my hair.
Sprinkle of Light