I will trip and fall
Through glass shower doors,
Blood and shards scatter.
Two shards
Bounce into the toilet.
A third finds the sink.
The drain washes
More and more of me away
Under the spurting shower.
I will survive the stitches
And see a woman
Standing in the doorway,
Hands on swollen hips.
She is my woman, I think.
Her eyes become a path
To the dangerous present.
A baby cries in her womb.
I hunger from losing blood.
She slices a hunk of moon,
Serves it on a blue plate
The stroke of midnight.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The flare lighting the darkness in the poet's soul.