(i)
Not the reptile
in the bush,
but a curve on a face,
beaming a smile -
lighting the fire
of a splashed laugh.
Not the sneaky
smooth-skinned worm,
sparks in mouth
flowing out stropped mist
in forked arrows
thin as strands of wind,
thick as swords
shot through clay to land
in a bowl of marsh.
(ii)
Not the wriggling rope
that crosses
the road before a jogger,
as a brisk walker
screams out a spear
of fright
sinking through a fat nerve.
Not a hiss of wind
from a winking passerine,
but a sigh
from a cracking crevice
to grab
and tighten a throat
with a reef knot
woven by a saber-toothed mouth.
Not a crawling beast
in the woods
and braided grass
amid dreadlocks
of jumping vines and stalks,
but the ant crawling
on a shadow
in the sand-dunes
living in the room.
(iii)
Not the night-clothed,
paced crawl
up a dented face's wall.
Not the wriggle
scooping out
a track
up a laddered cheek,
but the round curves
of a grin
that lies back like a mamba
and strikes
with the soft sigh
of a hummingbird
behind the fire
of a flower's flame.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem