writer – Porridge

POETRY IN TRANSLATION – Bartosz Konstrat, tr. Dawid Mobolaji

But from time to time it does exist. Something like a stray lash under the eyelid
trying to catch its last breath.

at least the colour I’m told is
robin’s egg blue, like
boy-baby blankets, like
deep breaths of sunshine.

It is an old superstition.
The mirror, and the room
dark behind it but for the
flickering of a few fading
candles.

She arms herself with the metal pipe of the Electrolux
with the precision of a marksman