I don’t want to compete. let alone with the dead, let alone with mothers.
my voice dissolves now in liqueur, now in asbestos.
among graves, cypresses, and orgasms.
my cheeks have got thinner. I don’t want to compete. what use are the dead,
what use are mothers?
a golden customary variant: a golden passage dug into the self.
© translated by Andrej Zavrl, edited by Alan McConnell-Duff