Forgive me. There were shouts across the screen
but I put my hand through the screen, so keen
was I to keep my secret: I would die
unless I was hooked up to a machine
which sucked tiny wads of paper and lye
from the bloodstream. Since the ability
to scream disrupted the sterility
of a stationwagon, our way seemed clear.
Fear directed us to virility.
She claimed the masculine is a veneer sheer
as chiffon. Standing in a parking lot,
I murdered a boy with this train of thought,
then cried till my sobs shriveled into soap
and we grew up to be what we were not.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem