Atrocity Exhibition
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2 poems by Alina Stefanescu

10/31/2015

2 Comments

 

Ghostless

She doesn’t appear in the gold of the first sunset after her death. 

I thumb through the kids' ghost stories to strengthen the spirit.
In the stories, all the ghosts have teeth attached to smiles.
Ghost stories give me hope self-help seems to lack.

When I don’t see mom in the moon one month later, 
I tear out the pages of the ghost books 
and throw paper scraps into a white plastic bag 
which I label with a black permanent marker. 
Now they are PIECES OF SHIT. Now they
are childhood’s impossible goblin stories.

The ghosts have failed me. 
What hope is left and fuck 
those who say paying off 
your home mortgage is such a nice 
way for any mother to go. 
Fuck them, I whisper. First.

Who knew what I’d crave the most after she left was fairy dusted?
Who knew the way we wish for ephemeral ghost fingers 
to rub angry shoulders and promise faraway things 
with Romanian tongue?



Why Are You Crying?

I’m crying because I want people to like me.
Especially women. I want women to like me.

But you don’t care if people like you, he scoffs.

I’m crying because he thinks I don’t care
if women like me and people shoot kids in self-defense.

But this has nothing to do with Baltimore or kids, he says.

I’m crying because the world is a web that words
stumble across and words are nothing like dew on 
a web and I am a woman who wants to be liked 
but stays home in self-defense.

But you should get out more, he encourages.

I’m crying because he’s encouraging and
at some point encouragement becomes flattery
and there is nothing so lethal among friends
as flattery. Nothing I fear like flattery and
George Zimmerman and all men but also 
the women I want to like me.

But you haven’t explained what’s wrong, honey.

I’m crying because the web is a world when 
I lose my thread a human touches my arm
and says tear are too much but not enough.
The abundance of our excess, insufficient.



​

Picture
Alina Stefanescu was born in Romania, raised in Alabama, and reared by the love-ghost of Tom Waits and Hannah Arendt. She lives in Tuscaloosa with her partner and three small native species. Her chapbook, objects in vases, will be published in March 2016 by Anchor & Plume. Find her in Lockjaw, Cider Press Review, Driftwood Press, Rivet, Fiction Southeast, and more online at www.alinastefanescu.com.

2 Comments
Matte Blk link
8/29/2020 06:07:08 pm

Dragons R bad, dear.
Dragons come from Satan -
he's below. Im going Upstairs.
Follow me.
GBY

Reply
Matte Blk link
4/3/2022 04:49:48 pm

Heads-up, girl:
Take your first finger and hold
it close to your indelible thumb;
the spaceNbetween is how long
our lives are - then comes eternity:
Seventh-Heaven or Abyss o'Misery
(yes, dear, Purgatory is true as
the Son Shining upon humanity).
○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○♡○
And who decides which realm?
WEE do! Ourselves! And our eyes!
...according to the deeds WEE have
accomplished in our WEE lifetime!
☆☆☆ nrg2xtc.blogspot.com ☆☆☆
I'm a true, Near Death Experiencer.
---> God Bless You.
---> I'll pray for you.
---> God ain't a religion;
God's a relationship.

Reply



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