Taut as a drum, you beat
a slow tattoo against my skin.
At each stroke, the guttural utterance
that renders speech redundant;
at each stroke, blue worlds
mute as bruises. Boundaries
blur, as you ink out an indelible territory
where language is pure rhythm
and retreat is no longer an option.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem