Menu

Poetry

This is a rich, mighty martyrdom.
             —Santa Teresa de Ávila, The Book of Life

You bind my hands with saliva, then turn three times round my waist and ensure your victory with a knot without a loophole. You’re a snail, binding the hands of the rain. You rend the night any which way and bandage my eyes with such force that my breath sinks into its misty tundra. You appear, penetrate the walls of my cell, hold down my scream with your scream. I try to get free of myself like a cobra under the narcotic effects of music. Please, tell me who you are, you who in this way have bound me to death.

 

Translated from the Catalan by Sharon Dolin


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

To experience the full archive, log in or subscribe now.

Related Poetry

No Counting Sheep without Feeding Them, Too

By

Stephen Cushman

a woman sits in a clearing among trees filling a water bottle. there is a light leak across her.

Anniversary

By

Franz Wright

Image

Appeal to the Self

By

Heather Sellers

close up image of the edge of a bug's wing.

Grace Descending

By

Daniel Abdal-Hayy Moore

Pin It on Pinterest