Translation (5 February 2017)

maybe my native tongue
is a language
still unfamiliar to me.
maybe my poems,
maybe the words,
are just waiting in the wings
waiting for me to turn the page
and find them there.

but my silence can no longer be still,
my heart can no longer hold.

Maybe my language
is just my mouth on her back
with the soft flannel
of her sighs

under my hand
I can know the down of her skin
but when I go

to find a pen

the words stumble
ungraciously
to the corner of the page
and scatter
askance