Jeffrey Langlois 

Translator

esus doing the butterfly stroke on the cross

-- -- -- --
baby trophies
on the corridor of the maternity ward
-- -- -- --
a woman from the fifth floor
falling into
stretched open pupils of firemen
-- -- -- --
a big-headed little boy
sucking a baloon
-- -- -- --
a statue under a white sheet ready to jump

he would grow out of that kiss
these sealed lips won’t let him go
the pain to touch to get used to her chill
to lick the ice from her
to slip under the eyelids
behind the last thing she saw
as he falls among the tendrils
he parts the earth from the sky ─
tiny footprints in the snow on her face
worms in a plank
embryo in a grape
in the glinting hoarfrost garden
with a dead woman in the same body
in the slippery turning leaves
in this sweet smelling breath
in this false-bottomed pit
he has it all
all he is good for
cold ─ his beard is grown
itchy ─ he’s scratched
hungry ─ he’s fed
something gets under his skin ─ he’s stuffed

the lights of the awakening city
he watches the arm swinging the blow
finds him as if he was yanking open curtains
no speech no cry he mutely falls
unbuttons his jacket to feel the cold
to throw himself on the solid marble air
as if flattened by the space holding up his chest
pressing him into the low grimy clouds
he doesn’t reach the ground he swims forward
as if his fingers had grown webbed
elbowing his way through the gaping crowd
thudding dully into the dust no word no anger no blood
he doesn’t speak he doesn’t bleed just rips open
he lies between legs hot and grey
watches the body that took the place
of the body turns away disappears in the crowd
so they won’t know what he is thinking from there
every morning he stops in front of that house
staring up high watching how far he would drop
he falls mutely on the stone