For resolve I touched my knee.
Not for that was I born.
To roll in nets, to drown in air
Rot, blister in the sun, to the whining of flies
In the grasp of the burning air.
I shunned it with Lenten resolve, shuffled to options:
No, mine, instead, the arms, sinuous, slender,
Fringed with wet sea-lace-
Tapering to hands, to fingers that declined to evolve webs,
Able to ring the strings of psalters
To swim the seas of sounding sea-organs-mine
Or the vestigial lung that wearied of its air meal.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem