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Poetry

God does not give me peace. God is my goad.
He bites my heel like a snake,
makes himself verb, meat, glass shard,
stone against which my head bleeds.
I cannot rest in this love.
I cannot sleep in the light of this eye fixed on me.
I want to return to my mother’s womb,
her hand flat against her bloated belly,
hiding me from God.

Translated from the Portuguese by Jessica Goudeau


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

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