when you return from home
we’ll spent several nights
searching for something in us
to write a poem about the willowy trees
and weed-choked lawns at home
we will talk of the sneering leopards
said to be on the streets and don’t forget
those rambling stories that make Blacks feel
incomplete— fragmented—with no punctuation
we will spur down forgotten roads
comb forests on hilltops and haunt fjords
for toothaches that windswept dawns
into nightmares across the ocean
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem