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.