Another midnight storm washes away the cold poetry
born at the top floor.
I balance my whole weight
on long words;
frozen stones on my tongue.
I count the mistakes god has done with me,
just to pass the time.
The violent rain hid a blind dog
inside my very bone.
Here, upstairs, both of us in the same body,
awake and hungry,
©Maria Stadnicka, MMXVII
published in ‘Stride’ magazine, available here
I bring white little stones from the market
and place them, like pills, in long straight lines on my desk.
Although full of stuff, my body lives at the top floor –
with a view towards a perfect car park.
I watch the beheadings through a narrow hole in the sky
I point a fully-loaded gun against the world.
The earth rests
suspended between wild heavens and landscaped gardens.
And yet the sun is still rising above the silent bell ropes,
hanging loose among people who stand up to
look at the death pit as if
nothing has happened.
First published in Your One Phone Call, Wales, available here
The hunger was the woman with a friendly, foreign name-tag.
That busy Saturday.
A miracle healer, as pale as milk, passed through the city –
a reminder that we all had our role to play in the war.
For a moment, his voice stopped the curious shoppingbagscrowd-
echo between tall cement buildings.
A sudden rain followed, baptised my sleeping bag,
in the queue at the Lower Street Food Bank.
The history sliced a nearby road in tiny squares of holy bread.
– published in International Times, available here
big fat bottles on a kitchen shelf.
A collection of colourful glasses,
with human hearts
preserved in salted water.