Vaya con Dios

(fragments from a handwritten epistle)
Since we last spoke, a few more sticks of dynamite
have been dropped on Nebraska.
Not death, the paradise I begin to fear
with each bite of reality.

I hope every day.
I learn how to starve better,
how to become vertebral red.
In absentia, the truth sweeps the ground
with half-written books.

Recently, I rounded my inquisitors up
to force-feed them the fundamentals of spring.
Shhht! Not a bad word in my ear!
The language made me a strange creature.
All that youth, so unreliable, unnecessary.

Eventually, I shake the dust off my clothes and
keep on walking. No doubt,
people like us will never possess a sole


Maria Stadnicka
Illustration Nick Victor

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