Garlic, you poser,
you snowy-hearted non-participant,
lying languid in the pantry
like a cold-shouldered bimbo next to old onion.
I blow your cover,
take you in hand to peel your bulb apart,
Your cloves spring free as thick and waxy as eagle’s talons.
In the kitchen I cut and crush your bite-size payloads;
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem