Luggage

 

 

This morning a revolution begins

with a fight between my sister and I

over a plate of stale breadcrumbs.

 

News in the background:

headlines, a reporter interviews a war hero,

no school today; a bomb

exploded on our playground.

Then weather forecast:

bleak, minus, Western chill.

 

Silence follows the samovar’s whisper,

our small hands finish homework.

Arched backs break, bearing too many words –

heavy crumbs fall between eyelashes.

 

Father sips boiled leaves, watching

Dynamo Kiev versus Beshiktash,

in Champions League. Nil-nil.

Offside, free kick, fault. Crowds wave

half-burnt flags, breathing defenceless

against the penalty shot: the ball flies high,

West-East, hits the bar.

 

Outside kitchen window,

orphan trees march towards distant borders.

We do not lift our eyes from the page,

do not see anything but ourselves,

packing maps, colours, memories –

essentials for a world on foot.

 

In my satchel, baking paper wraps up

the infinite possibilities of one-way roads.

 

 

 

Maria Stadnicka
Illustration Nick Victor

 

 

 


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2 Responses to Luggage

  1. jeff cloves says:

    olé
    olé
    olé
    Maria top
    of Champion’s
    League

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