In bed with the early morning shadows
bleeding the night into another killing
where glorious colors like afterbirth flows
in nebular jets into the horizon’s bowl,
revealed, I have the presentiment that my
life will fail, and rising against my Northern
dreams, I secede against their human impulse
of hope, and the cities inside me scream,
“You will never have her. She will never love you! ”
and through me a million men suddenly
charge into battle, slamming into each other
like tectonic plates mounting inside my body; after
a few bloody seconds there is a fissure running
through my forehead and over 650,000
of them fall dead, and my deep southern
thoughts fall down like sweat to the oppression
of my continuing hope for her; many of the
confederates are hanged, the remainder forced
to sign their lives away in indentured
servitude in the back of my mouth, never to
be spoken out loud; and so I go to sleep in the
North, victorious, the day beginning its bloom
in the low cut bodice of a harlot, my last words
being, “She will be mine. She will love me.”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Your use of language is extreme yet tempered, I love it. The poem's imagery is not only powerful but evolves before the poem ends; multiplying into MORE images. Very clever work here. S x