Sometimes a poem glances at a page and averts her gaze
as if from a strange man

But at times, like a maiden fasting for a husband
she is visited by something like a dream
And suddenly the touch of a male limb
sets her body aquiver within the dream

Sometimes, on tasting fire
she is startled awake—
Fondling her ripe limbs
she unbuttons her blouse
splashes moonlight over herself
and the hand wringing her body dry, whimpers

Her body’s darkness unfurls like a mat
She lies on it face down
plucks at its straws
and smoulders all over
Stricken by the urge to have her body’s darkness
shatter between strong arms

Suddenly a page steps forward
and brushes her trembling hands—
Something in her burns
Something else melts
A strange scent reaches her
And her hand stares at the lines inscribed on her body

With sluggish hands, writhing body
and brow lined with sweat
A long line splits
and breath—
is drenched in the dual scent of birth and death

These thin black lines
are as if fragments of one long cry …
Silent, amazed, and wrung
she stands, sees, thinks:
That some injustice has come to pass
Something in her has died—
Perhaps the deliverance of a maiden womb