At Rodin’s House

Bodies tangled like tonsils, two stones claiming space

Deep in our throats. My eyes met yours across vacant pews

In memory of unsacred chapels, those looks locked into arms race

of clenched toddler fists. And your grin unscrupled statues


The museum sign warned us not to touch. The ways

You feigned misunderstanding the language to ruse

The rules, to glide your palm over frozen stone thighs, to choose

Which parts of speech applied. I was your girl, your dazed


Petal footprint, your sworn-over silence. I was your rock, keeping tight

Secrets in French. I was not the museum guard but a guardian (still)

Of loose appetite. Saying Rilke lived here, wrote of light and dazzling white

Sculputres. Our bodies skewered towards hostel sex, minds angled to fill


Faithless hands, corset eyes. I needed someone to catch, someone to indict

You for turning me over. Sculpting desire into mountain you could not, quite.


Alina Stefanescu

Alina Stefanescu was born in Romania and lives in Alabama. Find her poems and prose in recent issues of Juked, DIAGRAM, New 65 South, Mantis, VOLT, Cloudbank, New Orleans Review Online, and others. She serves as poetry editor of Pidgeonholes and president of the Alabama State Poetry Society. Her first fiction collection, Every Mask I Tried On, won the Brighthorse Books Prize. More online at or @aliner

Contributions by Alina Stefanescu