In My Mind I Tell Them 

every day I wake up planning to

write letters to all my friends 

from the other side I promise 

I will ring at some point 

and even draft a note to my mother 

to say I am my mother 

now

nurturing the children

still locked inside me

with lungs expanded towards the sun;

in my heart I nurture my own skin

with natural kindness 

the moment the unborn does not want

but has to 

get out to breathe.


There are no better words than those which are heard.

shadow


Thought

 

to M. M.

 

Even without a language

I walk that way

marching towards the watery sun

with anger.

It never rains inside of an egg

so

I choose to deny

the sea born

in my rib cage

and go on

being allowed to hope.

chairPhoto: Maria Stadnicka


Weapons 

Today all that I knew is gone.

I choose to stay behind,

to count the squashed toads 

on the pavement

with childlike curiosity.

My perfect posture feels no sorrow

the same way 

life does not feel 

when it is the right time.

And waiting with knees bent 

seems ominous.

Everything arrived for me

at the same time 

in the same place,

whilst I was spreading 

fresh grains on the carpet.  

My trace is now palpable,

opened. 

All things broken by hours 

written on pieces of bone.

But the language has changed.

I am growing at a slow speed 

under the light of an

energy efficient bulb.

My voice has got weapons

which nobody else can use.



Photo: John Stadnicki 


The News Are Not Great

I am able to follow from miles away

the breath of a half asleep night driver

getting on with his load of milk

delivered to a city

where the war stopped.

The man at the steering wheel

does not know I exist.

He has to look forward

to watch his concrete speed 

while I pause,

come close to the window.

I wave at him.

I put a big sign out in the sky

to warn him

the news are not great.

Everything carries on as before.

The motorway traffic,

the search for nothing in particular,

the walk with the dogs 

where once was a meadow.



Photo: Maria Stadnicka 


The Fear of Lines

If I’d say it in words

only to you that

I am not scared,

no matter how soft the sound,

my voice would repeat after me

the impossible truth. 

It is not the fear of whiteness,

nor the lack of road signs in solitude,

nor the absence of skin in death.

It is holding a gun against 

a butterfly’s head 

just about to take off

when knowing 

the meaning of a precise line 

drawn with a historic pencil 

across the lands which once

belonged to the earth, not to people.

Photo: John Stadnicki 


Cubes and Other Lessons

I could give it a name

associate simple sounds

make it be 

love with the neck stretched on the wooden box

but it is 

nothing less than 

my inflated lungs

in your chest.


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