A N A   P R U N D A R U

​​H E R M E N E U T I C   C H A O S   J O U R N A L

                             I M P E R M A N E N C E

To tell the jeweled bear that the skyline picked you is to admit it’s tall-standing nightmares that thread your weathered existence. Grilled ham and pears is what you served him. His head hung low. He came to be alone. You had dyed your hair pink that morning, catching and marking strands to hold on to. He’d kick the cracked tile floor, harping smoke rings with his head pressed tight to the window. Behind the till, you painted your lips in blotches of Bordeaux. Perhaps he’d leave a tip. But he didn’t. He exited and returned with a gemstone-laced bear from the claw machine. His fingertips slipped between yours for a moment and it made you question what made you choose this life. Wherever he escaped from, you thought, you wanted to be. He never made it back to the diner. But who knows how it would have played out.

Ana Prundaru was born in Romania, raised in Germany and Japan, and thereafter bounced between Switzerland, US, Netherlands and France. She works across various media, such as acrylic paintings, collages and digitally altered photography. Nontraditional and micro poems hold a special place in her heart; some of which recently appearing in Hedgerow, Mainichi Daily News and velvet-tail. Visit her at www.anaprundaru.wordpress.com.