Not to speak To see and to translate into moans It's not pain To moan from birth Only the eye and the conquering of a tongue (that you wanted to say that for the slit?) To return toward hearing (to touch oneself) via the heart is heard slowly Is guarded like a black poem as if it were an eye who might rain
From Negro marfil / Ivory Black by Myriam Moscona. Copyright © 2011 by Jen Hofer. Published by Les Figues Press. Reprinted with permission of the translator.