The thing I'll never write is the green leaf
with its rubbery-hard veins, I'll never
write the structure exposed, instead
I'll write the girl picking it up, green leaf,
her pudgy hand & her wanting it, that's it,
because she knows the sky is full
of stumbling ghosts, & she's back in the cold
room, back on the dark floor, & along
so much sky, what does one person do?
She says, bring it to me & devours,
hungry girl, breaks it open, tastes
the day's first plasma of leaf, first blood
of green on her city street, she takes it
to her like morning's first kill, &
owns it, stem to point,
& knows her life will always
be this biting open one thing
to leave another, that the only
way she'll get anything is
with this tiny hammer
in her animal brain
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem