On a face meticulously sculpted
from melancholy memories,
her smile remains one
of cool poison, of beauty
carefully woven into pain.
Her dreams always take place
in January, in fields of snow.
She dreams of giving birth
to an octopus, to a head of
cabbage, to the shadows of herself.
Once a month, she dons a wig
and sunglasses and buys a
round-trip Greyhound ticket
to a city one hundred miles
to the south.
There she changes into a
nun's habit and wanders
the streets, loudly praying
the rosary in French.
After five minutes, her menstrual
flow begins and her eyes sparkle
as the strawberry blood trickles
down her thighs, making mystic swirls.
She prays so loudly not so
God might better hear her,
but because this is the one time
in her life when she believes
every word she says.
This is the only time
she is ever free,
the only time
she can see herself
for what she truly is:
infinitely tired,
eternally frightened.
Half here,
half gone.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is truly a tribute to bathos.