The daughters ran away into the hills
after boys with wild, limp arms
leaving the last of the apples to burn
while he wrote
It has been her jaw
he wrote
scratching his beard and turning
pages from a picture book
her jaw and the angles of her arms
Off in the hills the boys were
doing feats of strength, swinging
from hideous, ruined vines
The girls were were quite satisfied
The apples burning black had turned to sugar
He caught the smell as he looked at trees
(he could never quite get her eyes
he searched the cupboards, planks, all
along the table)
Kissing it was the girls who first felt discontent
distaste, the haste of all preparations
They ran off to the apples
When they returned he was crouched alone
like always, frittering away the last light
He stared past them onto the paper
trying to get her eyes.
RB
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem