Hold on a tick, while I lick
my fingers, mother. No need for your voice
to carry—or let it whirl if you will. Let it be
shrill; stick a needle in a cloud
over a cliff—not my
bridal shroud. Because
(before I marry) , I'm going
to tarry, eat this
blackberry and lick
my fingers.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem