Birth of a poet
By Inga Piotrowska
I was delivered by a midwife with a cut on her finger.
She left me sadness to look after
stuck to her hands
dried from excessive use of soap
countless attempts to clean it off.
I remember her white uniform,
baggy eyes and forehead wrinkles
more radiant than my mother’s smile.
And the finger cut
deeper than C-section wound
with its unrelenting itch
left with me to heal.