Every Thursday afternoon
Spent
Digging graves
As ghosts kneel
At her gruesome feet
There to scrutinize
deep piercings of soil
throwing away
grubby memories in dirt
making space
for the new ones
The weekly cycle
leaves her feeble
as an ill-treated kitten
Correlation, with
The mirrored dead
In her mind
She’s already there
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem