My son cries and I stumble
over to the dark crib
and he hangs on my neck,
dependent, and love
twists deep inside me,
the good knife
working the pointless
tangle of old roots and fear,
the baffled heart prized
open by small
and normal degrees …
How easily
we waste our lives,
lavishly, with little
thought, and then
such tiny
socks.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem