Droplet of chocolate
At the bus stop a lone woman puts her handbag to her mouth
and takes a long slug from a brown bottle neck. She doesn’t look
around, why should she. She glances at the murky sky. In a while
she screws on the cap, fondly puts the handbag on her knees, closes her eyes
and breathes in – my God – obscenely breathes in a mighty gasp
of air sticky with chocolate from the nearby factory.
A fag end in between the pavement slabs
smoulders on, just as the meagre hope still smoulders
that we’ll come out of it unharmed. I don’t know out of what,
I wasn’t at that lesson. The point is it’s still smouldering.
“In a year it’ll vanish for roughly a decade”.
The doctor leaned over my little girl and gently
smiled. “Please don’t be worried. She isn’t
going to lose her eye”. He looked at me, at her, at me.
He stroked her hair. “At least not for this reason”.
Translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones (with thanks to Karolina Iwaszkiewicz)