Tentatively, she steps,
Dark blue jeans made darker
by cold, chorine(d) water.
(What are the consequences?
No matter, for
Nothing matters now.)
She leaps, and like a fledgling
from its mother’s warm breast,
falls,
her loose white blouse billowing, suddenly,
like a cloud of forgotten dreams,
Or a parachute half-opened.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem