I had a disagreement with a poetry master
about wolves. And talking made me think
that I, too, had the same great fear
of living forever, but said nothing.
I remained held up by my feet and a tree
came out of my mouth. It hurt badly.
More than a lost war, more than lies.
The poet moved to the left, locked himself
in a room with many doors but no handles.
Outside, his wolf guarded meat-eating days.
Mine wanted to jump from a cloud
straight into the blank page, but waited.
A child passed by and said to me
that wolves did not exist on paper. Only in flesh.
Text published in ‘International Times.’
©Maria Stadnicka, 2018
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