It was as beautiful as you are. I chopped firewood
and made home in the forest’s lovely dark
Spellbound, an unsuspecting captive.
With no mirror, I forgot my liver transplant scar
would strut through the town, a popinjay
passed the weathered drunks who have no bars
who drink on cold streets.
Until your brother's wedding day, in one mad moment of
what the hell I swallowed the potion that always leads
to a place of blacked-out nightmares. Who knows
what screams evolved since the shameful silence deafens?
My only record is the transcript of bruises
the Policja wrote on my ribs.
My axe seems heavy as I try to bring you back
through a film of albumen I see you at the kitchen window
your brother Wojtek back from his honeymoon
hovers behind you, fearful. Your kind Aunts
no longer bring me pullovers and socks
and view me with suspicion.
I ruined Eden and must go back to London
because of your eyes, because you turn your back at night
because I fear you dream me, a dirty English drunk
hauled through the village to the courthouse.
The forest stays under my fingernails, the woodpile grows each day
and less often you are standing sadly watching
the days drawing in.
