curated by Adam Fitzgerald

Saturday, January 17, 2009

From the Inner Side of the Lips

oil. die and. Let
peace flow to your lips
may I
no longer be on them

or I will, from that amorphous soil,
with every breath of my dying
flesh, grow white
into you, be extinguished

until this white paper
is bedewed with words, until I come here

with the tip of the kiss
whipped, let peace grow
thorns on your lip, die and, flow, peace

let the door made of soil slam shut,
oil, may you die and, be so that I can be

where there is, first pierced, then sewed up
by your lips endlessly, peace
the white flesh of my voice, you sleep,
do not pull to pieces the darkness on my lips

by Anka Zagar (b. 1954)
Translated by Sibila Petlevski