To My Translator
       

Maybe the lunge to the sideward, your
lip ballet, equals the hardest case, squatty

with concision, straightway askance. The reasons
for this are numerable. All the appurtenances, I am

accessible to say, mark their leave somewhere.
This is the only one of mandates I come to you

bearing: hand me into this new space, think with me
the multiplication of tables, the last of shoes.

How particulate the writhing trees, where
my heart is windy: are you hearing its air?

One can transfer parts of our self throughout
these lines. Please to be the who to transverse.

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Copyright © 2011 Marsha Pomerantz All rights reserved
from The Illustrated Edge
Biblioasis
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission