at some point my translations
at some point my translationsand my notes flew directly to my ear
another dayalone in these white chairs
I rest on sandan island
rests upon the waterI remember all the kinds of wind
the light could makeif I walk
by different streetsthe gardens
I could hear the floweringI mostly
work to the last minuteI hear skin
and bonesat some point on the patio
the bread arrivesand the washing of our
hands
Before the rose
Before the rose is born and the bride is buried
Before the body breaks into roses
In the rushes and the reeds
slap your lips
Gulls circling the pier
calling hunger
In your throat the night sky
filled with all the stars of the cosmos
and your small yard
and you
Before the father
Before sleeping on rocks
in contemplation
Before the uncut clothing
leave it on
It’s dark in the street
It’s dark in the street, but still daylight
in…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, September/October 2020