Refugee Woman in Calais by Liza Wolff-Francis

I am not a silent poet

In the jungle, I always

disappear before dark.

Even if I still wait

in the six hour queue

for the last drop of shower

or for the soup kitchen.

If there is liquor, I am gone

or if there are too many men,

you will not see me

because the men here

are desperate to have control

over something

and I aim to not be the cold rain

collected in leftover plastic.

This jungle is tarp tents

and whimper sob tears.

It is a desperation like mud

trying to be brick.

I run from one point to another

so no one has time to stop me.

In my tent, I boobey-trap

the space around me with tin cans

in the hope that I will hear them

if they come for me.

In the day sometimes, I go

to the area for women and children

so I can feel safe enough

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