—past the dry-mouthed gooseberry bushes, except everything
was dirtied by rain.
Over again, you paint the magpie
we found on the wilting grass, and I mistake its feathers for wings,
your brushstrokes for a shaking wrist.
Notice: this is so much farther than you ever thought
to find me—my stories from behind your shoulder,
their stiff-footed drumming.
A man cupping a woman's shallow breast on the street corner.
He fears an unpossessible.
Literally—
what we do to another. That we do it until they hurt.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem