Rising to the occasion,
To the cobwebs of her family;
Nothing about her is old,
Or kept away too long:
In the opal ladders of her Siamese
Estuaries,
Her pillbox of a womb has
Birthed two children,
Bilingual,
Straight out of the old habitats
Of cliff dwellers and
Conquistadors:
She knows how to use the
Government,
But not how to swim,
So I carry her out into the
Breaking brim, and Alma’s
Little brown body braces against
My stalwart show,
Like a fox leaping into
An Eskimo,
An anarchistic fable
Of our time of the week
When butterflies get the day off,
When they are lucky.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem