Free Market

In the morning, I calculate my tradability,
scrape the balance in tiny red letters
on the inside of my wrist

Life is so expensive. Cutting a smile to nagging
supervisors: 98$, corpsing up and down the prison
of accessibility: 215$, incessantly being told
it’s not you, it’s me: opening price of 500$

There is an escape artist inside me
shifting her weight, so that the smell of
decay is caked on my eyelids, marshy flames
playing down my cheeks

I rise to the occasion, a singular yelp offering itself, its
potential to gravity. Mine isn’t the swampiest
of all places, but it is so quiet

I walk through glass and awaken in the ocean
thighs plummeted limply on other islands, winging
without the night, like polished tears of a bleeding rat

The waves are bubble wrap and I knife them
with my finger nails
inside the grey market, I reclaim what’s mine
and in the morning I re-calculate my tradability
scrape in tiny black letters: priceless




About the Poet:
Ana Prundaru is the author of Anima (Dancing Girl Press, 2017), as well as several other poetry chapbooks. Her work can be found in Kyoto Journal, Rattle, DIAGRAM, Journal of Compressed Creative Arts and Calyx, among other venues. She lives in Switzerland.


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