tr Sandra Simonds

 

 

I shout, “Get your asses off the couch!”

         and they turn to me, all the damned ladies of my past, 

as if their eyes, put together, are the grey, dilapidated horizon 

        line of the sea. They could care less

about my reproaches, those soft sponges.

 

I think, Felix, that those sisters are in cahoots! 

            Yes, they have marched from the grave just

       to wash my mouth out with their blood. 

In their hands, I see the resins of the past 

 

and they will not move from the Bacchus-like sediment 

       of their flesh. But Felix, listen. They are not venomous, 

          those cow snails, those pillows, 

      nor are they my TRUE tormentors.

 

The gigantic reality of their contemptuous spirits 

           lies like a gauze cloud before

my imagination. Oh Felix, I am full of my own

          long, lame, black satin tears 

which are satyrs that morph to fill the sky

 

with fruit bats and who could contain even 

    the faintest soul in this day and age? 

And as I turn my attention back

 

to those poor, poor, unmovable sisters, sages, 

          traps, cows, breasts, anemones, virgins, 

      blobs, amoebas, cavities, the sea’s holes, 

the salt, the sand dunes— 

 

I love them with the plainness of this speech

         and I beg them to fill my urn 

with the dust of their empty hearts. 

 
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