Holy Bread

My dad’s name is Doru.
Dor” translates into longing
half-mast, haphazard and not
even close.

A native country is small
but the longing obscene,
megalomaniacal enough
how sour the melting pot stew.

Vowels ripen into apples
in the orchard of Eden
ooooooo rounds out the pleasure
from which we were banished.
The rich aroma of corpulent Romanian
vowels make words bigger
than love or longing.
Things I’ll never say again.
Settle, instead, for dictators and awful.
Treasures are stored inside
stories passed on as pickled
cauliflower recipes or mountains
rising mid-nose or a taste for sun
with teeth. Emotions are held back,
stockpiled into traditional forms.
Agony: a folk song old as wind.

The hunger growls,
grows vociferous, Gregorian
chanting as one chorus
divided by ways to dream
a fresh loaf of bread.

Alina Stefanescu was born in Romania, raised in Alabama, and reared by the love-ghost of Tom Waits and Hannah Arendt. Her homeland is a speculative fiction. Currently, she lives in Tuscaloosa with her partner and and three children who don’t believe she was a finalist in the Black Warrior Review’s Poetry Contest or Fiction Southeast Editors’ Prize this year. Her syllables are forthcoming in Tower Journal, Cider Press Review, Lockjaw, PMS poemmemoirstory, and Kindred, among others. More online at http://alina_stefanescu.typepad.com/writing.

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