VENDETTA

I nurse several vendettas in me that I will never

carry out. Those ferocious ones scare me

the most, they contain so much suffering,

blood flows. At nights I start getting even

freely, but when IT is about to happen,

I turn the lights on. No scars or wrongdoing

I will never forget can turn me

into a bad person, worse than I am.

Is it weakness? Maybe, maybe not – I think

of things that time wanted to wipe out, but I still

feel pain, because some things didn’t heal

and I have to live with it. Memory is supposed to be

a treasure, but it can also be cruel, intrusive, taking

breath away. Not everything you want to remember.

I wait for the day my head is free of

the almost-rapist from Krzyki in Wrocław,

the almost-rapist in a cassock, the bald paedophile

or the panting man in dark polyamide

exposing himself in front of the underage girl.

I wish I didn’t carry this in me, I wish these images

didn’t live in me and memory didn’t paint them still

anew. There is less and less space for beauty

and less strength for vendetta.

BIRDIE

I

I lug it inside me like lunch for years

lying heavy in my stomach, with digestion

ignoring that weight. Memories

make everything hurt, especially the eyes.

Theirs is good memory, absolute in fact.

What could a nine-year-old child have been

thinking, jumping from a third-floor window?

I’ll fly and then land softly on the lawn.

Nobody knows when she did it. She lay on

a pavement in her white, first communion dress,

arms spread, face down.

Nobody screamed, it was quiet, and then

a little boy squeaked he thought it was Gosia.

A late child. The family outgrew nappies

long time ago, her brothers embarrassed by their pregnant

mother, then by the little sister crying in the pram.

When did she start thinking, I should not exist?

II

A n o t h e r  mother pushing a pram meets

a sad, freckly girl. She is annoyed

by nosy questions and shrill swooning

over the sleeping newborn. The girl

is pushy. A n o t h e r  mother feels dislike.

From then on she  c r o s s e s  the street

on purpose,  doesn’t  l o o k,

d o e s n ‘ t  h e a r  loud calls.

Soon after the girl starts turning her head,

stops saying hello, walks away hurriedly.

I hate that other mother, I hate her.

Today she would like to give this child a hug,

not – like it has been for years – just in her dreams.

T o d a y?

SOMETHING FOR NOW

For my Silesian friend, with love

Life is so beautiful, did you notice?

Yes, it is beautiful. Is that why you decided to kill yourself?

What a weird conversation. I can’t quite understand

whether you want to piss me off or just scare me.

The phone breaks up, I catch every other word. I’m scared.

A razor is out of the question, I would faint seeing blood and that

would be the end of the suicide. I would probably start screaming,

somebody merciful might call the nearest and dearest and lie that

I’m mental and I would be taken somewhere the fuck away.

What should I tell her? Perhaps I should turn it all into a joke?

The tracks are a long way, you would get tired before you get there.

What do you think, will a train wait to run you over?

Better leave it, aren’t you sorry for the train driver? He would be

fucked and might never be able get onto a train again.

Well, then I’ll stuff myself with sleeping pills and I won’t even

feel when the departure flight from planet Earth takes off.

I’ll die in a painless, feminine, aesthetic way,

but not today, as I’ve chucked all the pills out.

Come up with something for now.

I don’t think hanging will work. Do you have something strong at home

to do it properly? The doorhandle won’t do either, since

you’ve burnt all the belts and ties he had left behind. What about the ceiling light?

No, your balance is fucked; before you climb the table,

you will fall down and break your body. That would be quite something

and instead of a coffin, you will end up in a wheelchair, doll.

It’s definitely too early for that kind of a trip, you stupid crone.

Better kill yourself in your new poems, that’s the only

chance to survive. It will be a genius book.

You only write those.

SHE IS NOT THE ONLY ONE

She will be comfortable here – they will bring her food, change

her bedlinen. She will tell them she would like to eat some good

ice cream, surely somebody will get it, no sulking or tips needed.

She’s only here temporarily – she must have a break from the empty,

widowed house. She had dreams there in which

she could see faceless people chasing her all the time.

Dreams come and go, but fear stays for longer.

Why am I so old? It all went too quickly –

eyes are the worst, but the head

is still pretty good. Too good, unfortunately.

Today she pours her heart out to the woman from

the opposite room: I dream about dementia more and more.

That’s when you only remember the past

and I have lots to remember. I would be happier.

Poor her, she would like to set the end of her life

so that she doesn’t know it’s now.

TOO FAST

Will you be a good father for our children?

We don’t need children. Her face turned ashen,

eyes were flooded with darkness – he understood straightaway

that she struck him out of her life for good.

She didn’t have time to forgive me, because she died before

I changed my mind. How can I tell her about it?

He starts moping and I even feel a bit sorry for him,

he was too quick with this childlessness of his. Perhaps

he craved their nights together for as long as possible.

Just for himself? He left her out in his dreams,

and now he’s crying that it’s all his fault.

Translated by Anna Błasiak