Jean Follain, I tried to face the animalbut blinked when I saw the billboard.Anna Swir, I laughed in the Atlantic’s facewhile choking on the ocean inside me.Louis Simpson, one white naked bulbilluminates nothing. We cram our bodiesinto dark houses together.Walt Whitman, the song of myself was stolenby little ones calling me mother, meaning mammallost to autonomous, unique space.Judah al-Harizi, the mother’s lute is beautifulin portraits. I waited for the painter; performedappropriated delight. Lies I’ve posed come backto taunt me. Speak to me of music withoutinstruments. Speak to me of the nights.Wislawa Szymborska, the grain of sand in my stomachkeeps growing. The courier calls fromthe kitchen. Who can swear to be humanin a fetal position?Francis Ponge, give me one objet-jeufor the family road trip. One reliefthat isn’t acid. Have you written the diaper,the carseat, the creamed carrot mush?Denise Levertov, what more must I witnessbefore absorbing the presence of a pink linen apron,the smother of unassuming feminine clothes?Li Po, I cannot go home again. I cannotdevise lyrics to embellish the prison.Antonio Machado, of course the ride lookslovely from the window. You are a man riding offin trains denied me.Gloria Anzaldua, I will crossroad my heart.Please Gwendolyn Brooks, hold my handthrough terminal hopscotch. —Joseph Brodsky,stars twinkle, pillowcase tears, pinchmarks.Anna Blandiana, whisper my namein Romanian. It’s the only poemI crave from a grave forever.Dear Czeslaw Milosz, give mea border, a beacon,a boughfrom which to hangthis cradle. Teach meto rock it. Show me the wordfor what happenswhen the walls andthe angels tumble down.____Alina Stefanescu was born in Romania and currently lives in Alabama with her partner and three opinionated mammals. Her poetry collection, Stories to Read Aloud Your Fetus, is available for pre-order from Finishing Line Press. Find Alina online at www.alinastefanescu.com and @aliner.