a hundred or some
men of her life
coming and getting
out of her mind
names of men
yet not one of their lips
and tongues and hands
or a finger
has taken hold
of her single nipple
the evenings
are figments of her
imagination
the bed has not
sounded
the squeaks
the moans
never, the legs
still fathoms apart
bodies of men
piled like boats
one after the other
with their names
on each, burning
falling, ashes
the sea clear
and silent
like patience
merely staring
not a word
shall insult
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem