After Ted Hughes
Stone-eyed,
skirt high, she sits
on a tattered cane chair.
In one hand,
a tarnished mirror,
the glass tilted from her face,
in the other,
a faded powder puff,
clogged from filling her frowns.
She points her finger upwards,
waits for an explanation.
Crow laughs -
‘Your own fault, ' he says
‘too many parties,
too much gin.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem