THE BOWLS Poem by Stefan Hertmans
THE BOWLS
She the fruit, he the beast.
He keeps the liver separate,
Because blood spills from the entrails.
Hunters know that, as do lions.
He has the bowls and basins ready,
And sharp knives for angels
Who won't be any help.
Everything can clot and
Suddenly flow again,
Stand still or move,
As the tendons in his flesh
Never cease to tremble
While his heart, cellar-deep,
Can cave in any moment.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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5/24/2024 1:11:16 PM # 1.0.0.1119
