IV

 

Now that love

is a strange custom,

extinct species

of which they speak

in antiquated documents,

and is officially censured

unused to the delivery;

now that the belly

has forgotten to engender children

and the ankle its gracefulness

and the nipple its glad promise

of essence and honey;

now that the flesh is knotted

and made naked

walks over and flops

onto the good flesh

leaving neither scent nor seed,

nor victorious battles,

recognising in turn

complete harvests;

now that tenderness is forbidden,

the lost style of grandmothers,

now that the caress has strayed

from its thick porridge;

now that the skin

on the walls is throbbing

man and woman

without the myrtle being passed,

the flickering ember,

I burn, simply

intoxicated and pregnant.

I rescue

the first word of the womb,

classic and extravagant

I undertake the task

of wasting

And I love.