A praying mantis on my windowsill
is tearing an insect’s wing
devouring its eye
keeping its egyptian poise
it fans a finger
of desire
but hardly stirs
like a punctuated afterthought
I watch
the inscrutable anvil
of its face for
any trace
aside from fly-spots
on the windowsill
not a morsel is seen
except for
these syllables
of the remorseless kill.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem