Today,
on a piece of
yellow legal paper,
filled with
the beginnings of poems
(stillborn things, really
continued attempts
to reach all the way back
to your voice,
the bruises on your summer legs):
Today,
on yellow paper,
(failing, once again,
to find your eyes) ,
in black ink,
in capital letters,
I print out your name,
underline it
three times.
It is,
dear girl,
the closest
I can come.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Oh how much can be read in the blank spaces where words would not come. You have written a poem that serves as example of the emptiness that rises from loss. Grief is an emotion that defies any attempt to portray it with the meager tools of pen and paper, but you dear man have come as close as possible. I wish you peace of heart.