Ana Prundaru

Old Haunt

So. Ever so often, I dream of my childhood home…
Arched doorway, tatami-scent. First year in a new country,
I was barely six. One night, cupboards slam and a window bends

in itself. Walls no longer brown, the house is ivy-shadowed,
left to rot like backyard treasures. When a house appears
after months and months, it’s a different house

in a different country. Blockish cement, surrounded
by dead leaves, at shouting distance from the ferry terminal. Tell,
what kind of creature gets used to chopping its own roots 

without mouthing a sound? ​​​What immigrant doesn’t love to
buy into the illusion of home? Even now I assure myself
it's remodeling…getting ready to reveal itself again, or maybe

boosting its grasp on a world, where my steps are light.
The cynic in me expects past dwellings on replay. A film reel.
One life to the next. As if I needed another lesson in letting go.

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Ana Prundaru was born in Romania and presently lives in Switzerland. Alongside her legal career, she writes and illustrates for publications like Fugue, the Pinch, Third Coast and New England Review.