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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.

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