Calling out and giving away the hidden places,
With the fingers that can stop the games
And tell the truth of witchcrafts, that the bodies
Aren’t really here:
The sky is nude as her open wrist: her eyes swim in
The long divisions of the things she tries
To forget the anatomies of,
And the good stuff just keeps bubbling over,
And curling its toes,
While the rhythms move and the blond girls are
Blond,
But Natalie was freckled, and she skipped across the
Earth like a doe tattooed in the spring
By her grandmother’s final wishes, until her feet
Finally touched down like a playground in
Kindergarten
At last kissing the earth.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem