by Corina Oana

Corina Oana, *shelter,* digital photograph, 2025. Courtesy of the artist.

snag

Corina Oana | AUG 2025 | Issue 48

the creeping flame of the life-threatening virus flanked my 50th july
as if to seal the permanent loss of my monthly blood.
it stole my taste
parched my openings
engorged the flame
heat, rage
a monster fire burning
the lies
the broken promises
the failings
the excuses
the eyes on me
the hands on me
the shame
the hiding
the lying
the running
the head roared and torched between my legs
all that i disconnected from
half a lifetime unprocessed.
consumed by wildfires
i am a branchless snag.
they say i am still vital for my ecosystem:
parched cavities where
insects shelter
food source
for
lichen, fungi, birds
a transient source of life.
heat surrendered,
create liberation
and sustain
symbiotic new growth.

Born in communist Romania, Corina Oana lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, a bicycle ride from the ocean. She takes inspiration from contemporary writers who bend time and whose unlikable and unapologetic protagonists reflect the complexity of this moment in history. A neurodivergent English language learner, she collects zines and poetic, life-mirroring novels such as On Earth We Are Briefly Gorgeous, by Ocean Vuong. Her poetry, stories, and reckonings are in online publications like The ManifestStation and Medium. She was invited to Grub Street’s Memoir Incubator, and is a member of the Manuscript Academy.