Persistent Ink

Photograph: ©Andrew Keenan / http://www.andrewkeenanphotography.com

 

I live in a round house across the road

and every day I wave the invisible white flag

just to distract you from writing so many letters.

 

Other times, all I do is stare at your reflected image,

bent over the desk,

thinking whether your back is broken,

having to bear so many words.

 

You do not lift your eyes up,

never see anything but yourself.

The only time you stand up and walk to the door

is to refill the glass with sand.

 

You do not receive news from the outside world

you do not know we live in times of peace now.

 

©Maria Stadnicka 2017

Photograph: ©Andrew Keenan

For more information about Andrew Keenan’s work, check https://www.andrewkeenanphotography.com/

Family Photograph

‘No-no!’ I shouted ‘the fish tank will stay in my room!’
The golden dead creature, floating on the green water,
had my mother’s face
before she went away.
I liked to keep everything neatly
in the same place where she left them,
undisturbed by the melting sun.

The dust shined
on the glass lid,
on the doll’s eye,
on my forehead
each night
when asleep in the hallway.

I sat down on the cracked lino,
covered my arms with leafs
and kept watching Clara tidying-tidying the house.
Her yellow fingers piled everything in a black bag.
She left the fish alone, with a sigh.

Looking at her moves up and down the stairs
I thought she looked a bit like
the one-winged butterfly
unable to jump out
through the shut window.

I wondered what butterfly meat tasted like,
if sliced with a silver blade;
what mother tasted like
in the moment I was released
honey coated pearl.
I put my elbow close to my lips
and smelled to see
if she was somehow hiding in there.

Clara tripped over my spread legs
but kept singing.
She did not look ahead.
I looked ahead
at each room
with a serious face.
My empty baby skin rested
on top of the rubbish bin.

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Installation: Rita Fenning

Wind Octet

There are no doors
No windows
Where we are
The black air stops me
Seeing how you look like
As you sit on the chair
Sipping the cold tea
I can only imagine your face
Reflected over an old map of innocence
There is nothing to say now
All that had to be spoken
Is spoken for
The non-words fill the landscape
With stillness
The beautiful dead bodies
Are floating outside the city limits
Taken away by tides.

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