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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.

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