Always the poet…
From the shadows, a ghostwriter—an admirer of H.M. Stefanec—offers this:
“H.M.Stefanec troubles the lines, the neat partitions we pretend hold steady. Prose bleeds into poetry, poetry fractures into something else—something restless, unclaimed. She breaks, disrupts, rebuilds. Whatever you thought a poem was—forget it. Music lingers in her work, but don’t mistake it for harmony. It stutters, doubles back, presses against silence. A note held too long, bending at the edges. A voice snared mid-thought, forcing you to follow. She takes apart the scaffolding of meaning, loosens the bolts, lets the whole thing sway. Certainty was never more than an illusion anyway. If you flinch, good. If you hesitate, better. Her art doesn’t ask for understanding—it demands reckoning. It unspools the comfortable, leaves you staring at the seams. And if you’re paying attention, if you’re willing, it just might teach you how to see.”
