being Józek

of the three hilarious witches of Kraków,
she was the wildest
and the smallest,
dwarfed
by her taller
and supposedly hotter friends,
tottering the cobbles
of Stare Miasto
on their long, long legs
and vertiginous black heels,
sly smiling,
pigeon kicking,
private laughing,
endless lying,
under low cloud,
among fallen leaves
and in the shouty, smoky fug
of hard-drinking cellars.


come back to my place, Józek,
she said.
it's empty and my heart gets cold.
I'm frightened of the ghost
of my uncle.
he was in the fucking
Służba Bezpieczeństwa.
you know what that is, Józek?
he was a spy, Józek,
a torturer.
the neighbours all hated him.
so they hate me.
cooking their fucking cabbage,
reading their fucking bibles,
smelling of cabbage,
smelling of bibles.
he hanged himself
in there
where I'm living,
supposedly with my brother,
but he's never home, he's
fucking some stupid girl,
some villager.
I loathe her, Józek.


so you want me to come back with you?
yes.
to stay the night?
yes.
in your room?
yes, in my room,
and tomorrow
we'll go the cinema,
we'll walk somewhere,
we'll get drunk again.
and tonight, in your room? tonight, in your bed?
tonight, Józek, we'll see. we will see.