I need to know the name of that bird and find out
who is making such music I never heard before.
I'd have a start if I could see a wing or a tail
or something. But it stays hidden away
in the crowded bamboo thick dark. A stone
with a pit wrapped inside of it; a lifted voice
inside the pit; a made-up world. Partly awake,
the bird still going, my wife's heel resting
against my shin. And the dense bamboo moving
suddenly all in one motion, the leaves pressed apart,
the bird's voice in there singing to me
about the birth canal she let me feed from,
the breathing gill she held me inside of.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem