Over there the window
shows morning—gray sky
proves the earth has been turning.

Here nothing moves. A cat.
A child asleep. A pot of tea.
The closed cover of my writing journal.

I do the tai chi form Preparation… Beginning…
all the way to Single Whip.
It’s all I know.

Assume the Spirit of the Crane, the instructor said,
but the shadow I cast was broken. When is a crane - ?
When is unbalance flying?

I asked a man what he does for a living and
he said, I used to be a poet. Why used?
Because I am no longer writing.

I am a poet not writing. Days of not
writing turn into weeks, months,
until the taste of poet

is a wet pill on my tongue, writer
a remarkable piece of clothing I wouldn’t
even know where to buy.

My child hits her head and sick
soaks my non-writing hands that hold her to my body.
Her breath is small cranes flying.

When is a poet - ?
I slice onions, comb the cat, teach a child
to erase words without ripping.

My hands cup water to my baby’s head.
In the window - gray sky. Tomorrow
I will start again from nothing.

by Rasma Haidri

winner of Riddled With Arrows Ars Poetica Award 2018