Thought

Just before midnight, in the unpreventable moment

my mother woke up to give birth to me,

I jumped out and spilt her blood on the floor.

 

My first angry poem, scream at the top of my lungs,

in the pale room.

 

A dormant city blessed the muddy wreath above the cradle

and

asked me to keep the noise down.

 

Mother went back to bed.

 

The following day I learnt to

write on white walls with red letters.

 

Video

The Shadows in a Quiet Mill