Little brother, our mother
is fattening you up
like a suckling pig ready for the spit.
Here is a shiny plump apple
to lodge in your mouth.
She is stirring the coals
in her vulgar garage,
that glimmer and shimmer like garnets in wine;
she is basting your cracklings
with honey drawn from her hive.
She allows you to crawl
but never to fly;
she has plucked out your wings
and made you a drone
to her queen.
She has rolled you in flour
and made gravy of your blood.
She allows you to look
but never be seen.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem