It is difficult to write when
the mouth pulls back
and bares teeth
and the head is a buzz
with the whispering wings
of a robin.
That person gazes into
a light bulb with
the false glow
of diliated scenes.
Can't we tell them?
We will kiss their forehead
instead of grey
and blue lips puckered without
music. Can we explain? We
feel different (never the same)
than that framed face by Munch.
They copied it in Home Alone.
We can't scream. We can't
put our hands on our face
and become a siren.
The differences between
a smile and a scream:
The mouth, breath,
and intentions all wrapped up
with nothing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem