Two poems by Adriana Ciontea
My dress, made of peony
covers me up dearly.
Spun in itchy wool from a sleazy sheep,
bought and gifted cheap,
one of a kind,
it ought to suit me fine.
Who gave me this dress
that clings to my thighs, my breasts,
wraps around my wrists, my neck
tight 'round the back,
into every crevice of my chest?
I'll wear it still
after I am stripped down.
I'll wear it to my grave
and under my wedding gown.
My teeth are the resting place of a hodgepodged smile.
I press my fingertips into my mouth, to feel them.
My fingernails are searching for a shred of my voice
that might be stuck between my teeth.
Instead, I find seeds of doubt sticking to my molars,
and this poem hiding under my tongue.
by Adriana Ciontea