Menu

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.

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

Related Poetry

image of a person looking over a sunset with a flower from another shot of film over their face. they are turned away.

Argument in Memoriam

By

Clare Rossini

[We have nothing…]

By

Dimitri Psurtsev

Orpheus in the Garden

By

Andrew Hudgins

Backyard Apotheosis

By

Robert Cording

Pin It on Pinterest