The theologians all err
when they describe God in their treatises.
You sharpen me until
I could have made that irreparable cut.
God will be born again to rescue me.
Kill me, Jonathan, with your knife.
Free me from the captivity of time.
I want to understand your nails;
the plan is not fixed, your face disappears.
I love time because I love this hell,
this excruciating love that needs the body,
that needs God’s protection to say
on this pedestrian-infested afternoon:
To have a body is the way to make poems,
to step on the margins of the abyss.
I love you.
Your watch,
incongruous as my shoes,
a joyful cross from Adam’s happy fall.

Translated from the Portuguese by Jessica Goudeau

The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

Access one piece of artwork every month for free! To experience the full archive, log in or subscribe.

Related Poetry

I Used to Light Candles for You


Joanna Solfrian

Canticle of the Sleeping Child


Jennifer Atkinson

Image of a house in the dead of night. The house sits in the lower left half of the frame and looks like a cut-out from black paper, lit up only by purple light coming from the windows and doors. To the left is an enormous tree shrouded in shadows. A low cloud hangs near the right side sky of the frame. Above the house is a vast sweep of stars on the gray sky.



Adélia Prado



Patricia Fargnoli

Pin It on Pinterest