Alia Kobuszko
Rain and then it came – this thirst
all at once like a terrible thing:
the mud-caked dog on the carpet
the crow on the windowsill, dragging his feet.
Why should they hold the monopoly on grief?
Last week in the supermarket I realised
marigolds are more beautiful to me now than ever.
I can’t stand to look at them without becoming
afraid. Washing my hair tonight could have been
the most pleasure I’ve ever had, I wouldn’t know.
I think I shampooed five times. I can still find comfort
in my thoughts when things are only as sad as I make them,
like how I used to pretend anyone who was dead was just living
in a different city. I keep wondering what that place would be called,
I never gave it a name.
Alia Kobuszko is a poet from London. Her work has previously appeared in Propel magazine.
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