‘The First Woman Above the Moon’ by Bogusia Wardein

What keeps her going is fear of failure.
She stays in her head all her life
and in pyjamas two-thirds of it.
Her inquisitive mind, her diploma in empathy.
The weekly singing classes in the flat next door
she can stand, but the moaning that comes afterwards …
Once she had a nightmare, the phone rang,
somebody needed something from her.
The damaged brain of Jim’s mother.
The nights spent staring at others’ windows.
On the table unpeeled shrimps.
When an inspector wants to check if she has a TV set
she asks him, do I look like someone who watches telly?
She used to pinch herself, hard.
Now in the footsteps of A. Lowen she makes crying
the daily routine, like brushing her teeth.
She abandoned the woman she was before,
chronically hungry, metaphorically.
In winter she loves merging with the dark crowd of the city.
A deep listener. No limits.
She smells like fire. You would kill for her curls.
It is not about the length of a cry session, but its depth.

From issue #7: autumn/winter 2018

About the Author
Bogusia Wardein’s first published piece of poetry was nominated for the Forward Prize in 2013. Since then fifty of her poems have appeared in publications internationally. In 2018 she won the New Zealand Poetry Society Competition and performed her work at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Her website is bogusiawardein.com