(1)
I, a bubble
of milk that
your movement
turns into
butter
(we, 4 legs,
4 eyes, lateral
vision like
that of chickens, cinemascope)
I, who rise
like a fish to the surface,
appear
at the porthole
of your mouth.
(2)
and today I listen
to the hum
of your vertebrae,
the inside space
of
words,
glowworms in
this my
dark.
(3)
and now that
the skin clouds over,
I want a
window to see me
inside, observe
the cellular
anthill
Elisa Biagini (Italy, 1970 -) from The Guest in the Wood, A Selection of Poems 2004-2007, Translated by Diana Thow, Sarah Stickney & Eugene Ostashevky, Chelsea Editions Books, ISBN 978-0-9884787-6-3, $20.00
To learn more about the author: http://www.elisabiagini.it/online/