Today's poem is by Marsha Pomerantz
To My Translator
Maybe the lunge to the sideward, your
lip ballet, equals the hardest case, squatty
with concision, straightway askance. The reasons
for this are numerable. All the appurtenances, I am
accessible to say, mark their leave somewhere.
This is the only one of mandates I come to you
bearing: hand me into this new space, think with me
the multiplication of tables, the last of shoes.
How particulate the writhing trees, where
my heart is windy: are you hearing its air?
One can transfer parts of our self throughout
these lines. Please to be the who to transverse.
Copyright © 2011 Marsha Pomerantz All rights reserved
from The Illustrated Edge
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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