If with one hand you
made me a king, god,
with the other you
brother have taken everything else
in return.
My wide eyes travel alone
towards colour.
They all stare at my crown.
But words do not weep
and nor do you.
We both have wet muddy hands,
under your skin, new silver,
under mine, a whole new town.
The familiar surrounding of yet
another road to Jerusalem
which I follow
as I follow black.
I am the best like this
with nothing left
hanging
dried purple tulips
at each door handle.
With no audience
I face the blackness of each line
to learn what remains of reality.
The hope that all could be new
when everything is
already gone.
@Maria Stadnicka
(photo: John Stadnicki)
Here I watch the day.
The storm over. A memory on glasses, on broken shoes.
My shadow reflected
on the opposite wall
sits still.
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.
Photo: Maria Stadnicka
At night I can only look at you
through a keyhole.
Sitting on one knee, on the floor,
I go on writing my thoughts
on pieces of cloth.
Locked in a motionless day
I keep busy
cutting my memory in perfect squares
to check how small
you became over the years.
I measure and trim
the infinite distance
between the rooms in my heart
with blunt scissors
and wish
we had more time or at least
we had more courage
or beauty.
But all we did in those days was sleep.
We were very good at keeping quiet
until the moment
silence, at last, settled in.
Photo: John Stadnicki
All the necessary preparations
were done. This is
what they will say when
the truth will eventually come out.
Although she never arrived
like everyone else
during the visiting hours
she almost made it.
If she had waited for a bit longer
someone, maybe you listening now,
would have noticed
the eventual passing
of such a miracle.
Photo: Maria Butunoi
to Clare B.
Clare didn’t wear
green trousers anymore.
It was a kind of winter
so she decided
other colours were
better suited for her there,
as she sat on the cross.
Her face had lots of
squares and dots and lines on it.
I remember at one point
some glue.
Her face had music.
Clare didn’t say much but
I noticed how she put down
the empty cup
and replied ‘well, good bye then!’.
Her giggle melted in a slice of bread,
flowing over a blank canvas.
Photo: Maria Butunoi
when finally God agreed
to go ahead with the interview
we’d planned ages back
I had no further questions
so I offered him
a ham sandwich instead
Photo: Maria Butunoi
There is no other sign of life here,
only my fingers caught between
the wooden pages of a newspaper.
When everyone else builds
the flat packed cement houses outside,
me and the nurse behind the glass
scrutinise each other, munching dry biscuits
and maybe
saying sorry for the spoilt tea nobody drinks.
Of this I am not yet so sure.
I suppose she checks the pulse,
the nurse with a concrete face
keeps filling in the charts
with the same precision she fills in
the crossword spread open
over my legs.
I do not mind.
I say to her ‘could you please remove the batteries
from the white clock’ the time
does not matter now
what matters, I think she says, is hanging on in there.
Her own watch upside down
hanging on, just about, with her name badge.
I offer her my bed.
I could after all sit in the waiting room
by the door
or make her coffee, I suggest.
But Susan points her finger at that hole,
uncovered wound on my chest.
‘For now, let’s just talk.’
The bare wall is
the last thing I remember and
Susan watching the news.
Photo: John Stadnicki
