I do not know what the body does
with the tears it doesn't cry.
Whether it files them,
or ferments them,
or simply waits —
Titanic. Schindler's List.
Whole rows of people
coming undone beside me
while I sat
in my own dry country,
wondering what they knew
that I didn't.
Each one logged and deferred. Will process later. Not blocking.
Then I am thirty-something,
it is a Wednesday evening,
10000km from the place I've called home —
fictional footballers
in a fictional locker room
pulling out pieces of a torn sign
that was supposed to be lost.
The system picks that moment
to present the bill.
Not quietly.
I do not know what the body does
with the tears it doesn't cry.
Whether it files them,
or ferments them,
or simply waits —
Nora stands on a sidewalk in New York
watching a cab take someone
she would have chosen
in another life
round the corner.
And I do not know why a Korean film
clears the queue
when the children of Kraków
did not.
The players put down their pieces.
The sign reassembles.
Believe.