this isn't about
how your head turns muddy red
when you lean against the wall
or my skin pulling porcupine quill
all over
when you wave your finger
like an axe aimed at my neck.
this isn't about
riveting images of wrath
and spinal war starting to spin
on your chest like electric fans.
not about burgundy flare hop
skipping a foot and a half
above your receding hair line.
this is about
stemming suffering that starts
at the end of body greed
in the empty heart core
that drains away forever
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem