If in a vacant rodeo,
Words are swallowed beneath the
Sky already bled,
Past the sundials and the ways that the
Dead were thrown into those cliffs,
Then think of my mother
Here,
And of her mother, and her sister buried-
And forget my dinted trumpets,
Or the hapless birds that procrastinate for
Her shoulder:
Think of how the sun rises over her banks,
And the very horizon peels away in
A sheath of occult blue-
And how she lays all day underneath the
Tourniquets waiting for those children
To come home to her from their
Season,
To relinquish the things that they now have
And return, though she knows
That they cannot- her bones growing so
Uneven and empty from these thoughts
That she is sure she can now fly to
Them,
Or become just as careless as they are, exploring
With them over the swallowed caverns
That use to burn altogether with the sunlight
That once dripped from her shoulders
As she fed them way back in her most careless of days.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem