She has given me the weather forecast.

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Maria Stadnicka, ‘Weather Forecast’ – pastel, pencil and ink on paper

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Thought

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.

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Photo: Maria Butunoi

Yellow

My mother used to say that
the yellow marks on my face
reflected the sun.
Sometimes she asked me to
sit still on the cold stone
just to prove that point.
I would refuse to see, eat,
for a day or two,
just to prove mine.
I would, instead, run to the river,
orphan but free.

The world stayed locked,
barely watching the colours through
a yellow window
until the day when
in a careless moment of joy
the poetry gave birth to me
under the candle light.

Yellow, ferocious birds escaped into the wild.
Flying away, small parts of my body.

Nobody-could-recognise-me-anymore.
I was new, alone with the sun,
big yellow eyes.

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Sleep

I sigh when I sleep
And turn my back to the sea.
My body gets smaller and smaller
Ready to enter the wooden box.
The history grows between us
Like a living room plant
In a small, windowless house
But at least you live by the fire
While I am the black ink of this poem
Staring at you during the night.
My bright eyes reflect
The shadow of your absence,
Waiting for a new, final peace.

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Photo: Georgiana Calinescu-Barber