She was known for speaking
in Victorian housewife earnestness:
“He sweetened his tea that day
with my tears” or
“His lips flattened against mine
like a jack-in-the-pulpit
pressed in the pages of my diary.”
No-one questioned her sincerity,
even though she hadn’t cried in ten years,
had never been kissed,
wouldn’t know a jack-in-the-pulpit
from an oleander,
and found diaries frivolous.
Yet, there beneath her suburban accoutrements,
behind her calm facade,
lurked a bit of a ham.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
i was expecting a hatchet job here, but this is actually kinda' (dare i say?) cute. I've known one or two of these.