She comes from places of the seen and unseen world.
She casts a brightness in the shadows of dim rooms.
She opens as they try to shrink her;
Fold her into tiny pieces of shredded past… Life…
She rests in her skin, in her thousand letters,
In her own eye, lip… fingertip.
She comes alive, thrashing darkness,
Into the thick forest,
Into the moonlight,
To cool into Being her.
She’s authentic. She’s imperfect.
She’s a kind of woman many question and wonder.
I too, ask of her…
“Who are you?”
– Ewa Sliwowski