Mother, who only days before
had given birth
was nearly dead
and face down in deep snow.
What for? I didn't know.
Father, who turned to lock the door
bore such self thirst
but fist, unquenched -
looked up to a child there
screaming from the top stair.
When blind fury once extinguished
revealed shame and
embarrassment
then he'd snatched at the catch
blaming, beckoned her back.
As unmerciful as ever.
A new realm stained
crimson on white;
she'd crawled through frozen air
abused year after year.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
When I saw the title, Gillian, I was thinking, 'Here we go, devolution'. What a surprise to find this powerful, unsettling piece. (I don't think you need that last line, Gillian.) Danny