Poem to Translate the Poems
Jeanann Verlee

The woman is my own regret.
The children are my friends,
how they cannot reach, or save
me. The birds are my eyelashes,
the wolves are my hands. Things
are making sense now. I write
my loved ones into organs
trapped inside apothecary jars.
I name the wicked beautiful
because that is what I am.
The blood is always my hunger.
My body, death. The stones mean
everything stays. Or repeats.
Raspberries and lemon rinds
tell how small and wretched
I’ve become. Boulders are
the weight of his leaving.
The horse is a dead family
member, someone old
whom I barely knew. Blade
is how he could have killed me
but instead I laughed. Each
cage is a love poem I don’t
know how to deserve. Bowls
just sound good in my mouth.
The things I write to fill them
are pieces of my dying. You
is almost always me.
Walnut shells safeguard
my lovers who are shrinking.
When something dies
it’s my mind. When something
soars, my mind. When something
is trembling, screaming, or trying
to jump in a river, my mind.

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