I'm life untethered, soaring upward
on itself, sharp of talon and lethal of
beak, leaving nothing in my wake but
warm blood and gristle.
If the moon were alive I would
slice right through it, and swallow
it in chunks before it ever reached
it's zenith.
But as it is, it's an ice cube, melted
by a heat lamp, and I catch it's tepid
drops in the belly of the titmouse, or
the warbler, or the blue jay-
each taken to the ridge line and
slaughtered in the sunshine,
where I only get a few bites before
the flies come to drive me away.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem