Not to speak
To see and to translate into moans It's not pain
To moan from birth
Only the eye and the conquering of a tongue
(that you wanted to say that for the slit?)
To return toward hearing (to touch oneself) via the
heart is heard slowly
Is guarded like a black poem as if it were an eye
who might rain
From Negro marfil / Ivory Black by Myriam Moscona. Copyright © 2011 by Jen Hofer. Published by Les Figues Press. Reprinted with permission of the translator.