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Maria Jastrzebska poems
Are we earthworm turning? Shiny
railroadworm flashing green and red,
bloodworm dying in enormous heaps
which make noses wrinkle? Inchworm
measuring new land in loops? Is this
what vermin means, Mama? Enchanting
glow-worm, Mama? Maybe mealworm
to be snacked on, Mama? Hard-working
silkworm or woolly bear worm surviving
winters, rolling into a ball if picked up?
Mama, are we pigeon, crow, snake,
rat? Little mouse, flea? I don’t mind
being puma – someone said they’d seen one –
or red kite, nearly extinct but look
at their long wings. Mama, we could be fox,
wolf, something shy that burrows or something
that digs its hooves in. But what are they
who call us them when we are us? Clouds
that drift? Particles of dust? To be cherished
or lost. No beseeching. Same as us, Mama.
*note: After the Brexit referendum result in 2016 police reported increased aggression and violence towards people from ethnic and national minorities, including Poles. Among these attacks, cards were posted through Polish people’s letterboxes saying: “No more Polish vermin”, “Go home”.
That boy with pickpocket blue eyes
and a steal-your-heart lopsided grin,
he followed you. Pushed you
against the bare brick of a shattered wall.
Stamped himself into you, leaving
no mark in the dusk. You said he only
stopped by to cadge cigarettes.
But you strolled back whistling.
The married men who slap you
too hard on the back, swing an arm
round your shoulder, your long white
throat, swan-boy. You glide among them
while I hop behind you like a crow.
We were going to rent an apartment,
you said we’d take in a stray kitten,
call him Kandinsky, maybe Cole Porter!
Even last week, I would have raged,
wanted God to punish you, but now
you can have that boy, have all
the boys in the world, the older men.
They can bring you as many gifts
as you like, lighters, silk ties, chocolate.
Only don’t let a sniper or the mortar
find you, come back safely tonight.