She lies
on a wet bed
Rifts on her belly-
red rivers carving
canyons
So deep and so dark
Higher on the hill
A moon, blood-red
with a fever—
Corn shivers,
Bow their heads
to her
They have heard
Of their slaughter
New growth
but no change.
Only the awkward silence
of my cerebral garden
being weeded
with two little hands-
my
misery
scissors
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem