Dog Politics

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
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.


Maria Stadnicka
illustration Nick Victor

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