LIFE Poem: Warsaw is murky, by Marta Dudkowiak

when I come in October
thick fogs like scarves wrapped around
the Palace
of Culture and Science,
its slender neck
so deserving of
great honours of the first cold days.

I am in awe
as I brew my coffee in the morning,
open the window to gaze down upon the street –
its matutinal splendour.

I love the concrete,
how it graces the city cruelly.
Why does it rain so?
& blur my vision?

Now puddles look like pools of blood.
And my bedsheets! Marooned.
I could smell it – I’m sure –
if my nostrils weren’t bleeding too.

Are you awake? I know it’s early, but
my heart is heavy.
The beauty of things tires me
winds rushing through the gorge of Soviet buildings.

I can’t handle it
or thinking to myself as you sleep.

I am lonely
in ways you don’t understand.

My soul is not of a Greek goddess,
but if it was,
her name would stay unknown

no attributes, no voice.
Mistress of the world,
or essence.
Maybe Sea Foam,
in her most dense form.