With Heikousen as my recent earworm, I act
the world forgetting, by the world forgot—
evanescent murk of the sullied corse taking part
in the prearranged dread of toffee apples
on All Saints’ Eve at Tesco.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,
Great Chieftain o’ the Puddin-race!
— Robert Burns
What if my life is as poetic
as IgA autoantibodies against transglutaminase
that wreak havoc on my body
every time I reach for a slice of haggis
with my Sunday neeps and tatties?
I guess I’ll stick with the French
ragout.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
You too believed in the heavens’ embroidered cloths
and that a bouquet of dandelions stains just your hands,
even if it’s already past midnight and your posh vocabulary
feels like a string quartet playing to the chomping down on a steak,
and the rough fabric is chafing your neck in order for you to amount
to more than the omission apostrophe in a shy ‘scuse me, please,
you will remember for the next four decades as the redhead with freckles
you’ve never had the chance to meet; just saw her once from a distance,
still too young to matter—a half-crown and a day off worth a stanza
or at least an enjambment.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
