God and Mother
went the same way.
What's a person to us
but a contortion
of pressure ridges
palpable
long after she is gone?
A thin old man in blue jeans,
back arched, grimaces
at the freezer compartment.
Lying in the tub,
I'm telling them—
the missing persons—
that a discrepancy
is a pea
and I am a Princess.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem