I suffer alone, like a premature baby in an incubator,
And the pitch-fork pines lumber straight up
Outside my yellow house:
The few rooms are filled with the ghosts that other people
Let in,
While she is soft and warm in a movie theatre tucked
Into the chest of the man who used to beat her,
Who she loves,
And the doors swing wide and sound hollow like good
Watermelons,
And the young bodies enjoy their young times like
Fieldtrips to water parks in the summer:
My soul blisters on the abominable metal of this unrequited
Winter,
As if housewives who have no children to call home to dinner.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem