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  • There is nothing of airplanes me
    Orchards draw up my hair in struck.
    crazy strands
    I'm drawn from rivulets
    easing slyly into banks

    A sunny silence pierces
    my bones of porcelain and milk
    Life pauses for years between
    a thing and a verb...
    Nothing gets remembered

    in me except what turns to bone.
    My father sat at a kitchen table
    yearning with eyes shut from
    us: he had a secret age and a secret
    wage, a union man. My mother
    braided all our hair
    together.

    If I forget my family it is
    to pollute myself in the bone
    of strangers, of men, to give up
    my face to their faces' imprint.
    There is nothing of men in me
    except the strange raw texture
    of their love

    There is nothing
    of erasures in me or sharp
    corners, no rewinding
    a saint's stare burned blind by wind
    a life yawned away in flesh.


    Poem by Joyce Carol Oates from collection "Anonymous Sins & Other Poems" (1969).

     

    Creators:

    Rafał Alchimowicz - dancer

    Aleksandra Foltman - dancer

    Edyta Janusz-Ehrlich - actress

    Tatiana Kamieniecka - choreographer

    Adrian Kulesza - dancer

    Marcin Kulwas - producer, author of script and music

    Agata Mieniuk - actress

    Kalina Porazińska - dancer

    Magdalena Płaneta - director