|
KAREN KOVACIK
AS MY HUSBAND TRANSLATES FROM THE POLISH
Unselfconscious as a statue,
he sits heavily on a thin green
chair, the dusky bunch
of genitalia hanging between
his open thighs. He scowls,
exasperated with lovers
he never met, with the spattered
imagery of cavalry and tanks.
He translates poetry in the nude,
in the raw, the pages around his feet
cast off like last night's clothes,
his lips silently working
in love or in despair
at the hour
of someone else's death.
* * *
|
Vissza /
Back
Magyarul /
In Hungarian
Következő /
Next
Előző /
Previous
Attila Torok
|
