At the third attempt
to get out
I saw the moon through the vagina.
My biological clock
runs no place:
I was born at night
and knew in that instant the hour of my death.
I have never written a poem in the morning.
I have roc birds
and carry owls sewn into my womb.
I must tell you:
when the moon is full it puts me in heat.
Where I come from, bats sing
till mockingbirds go deaf.
Those of us born at midnight
know our line:
the cemetery awaits us from childhood.
We visit our graves
and our epitaph
alludes to folk who,
running with wolves,
learnt to howl.
I wanted to know the exact time coitus woke me up out of death.
I was not consulted. They hung a necklace of bones about me to
distinguish me from others. Who was blowing into my ear?
Someone dug in their heels, tossing me into the tide. To make my
cycle complete, the undertow returned me to this world. It said,
Until the weariness sets in, suicides will be born, and vanished like a
Translated by Kate Braid