Maryline Desbiolles: poems
(tr. Tracy Ryan)
from “Blazons”
shoulderblade
a pain in the shoulderblade it
makes you think fondly of
the shoulderblade that juts from the backs of thin children
not the stump of an angel’s wing
but the sharp angle of L pulling up from earth to sky
thighs
thighs and
river
why do I always confound them because
they are in motion
no even when thighs are at rest
they splash
tumultuous under a
mossy froth we’re not sure
we know how to find
cheeks
our tongues touch
the inside of our cheeks
this way we touch their
imminent
disappearance
fondly this way we get into
the habit our
cheeks put us
in brackets
we get into a groove
hair
flinging to distance
hats scarves trappings
the wind delivers
hair from hairdos
the wind makes
lively
manes
rear
our hair in the wind reminds us
of our balloon-nature
before the mud might fill our ears
teeth
birds gleam
in the sun reappearing
between the clouds
birds gleam so brightly it seems they have parted the clouds
as teeth do
the lips of a smile
inner crook of the arm
the soft snow
even softer for being the inverse
of the brusque stone
it covers
as the inner crook
of the arm moves
its hollow
(fragile a
red feather might nest there)
close by and oblivious of
the jutting elbow
bottom
incapable as we are of seeing
our own buttocks
we lose sight of our great
fundamental tenderness
pubis
a tale of
apple and snake
who would fight for a flowerbed of
curly fur
there is however only a
fragile silence for hiding with some trouble
fluent fingers
sex
angels alone
no doubt have a sex
for down here I see only
the thirst
for having one
whatever it might be
and the uncertainty
sex
images do nothing
more for it than
anatomical
plates
the sex (what a word) stays blank as the whites
that covered it in former times
not to hide it
but to gag its
endlessly
asking
mouth.
tongue
the sex (what a word) well isn’t it
all
in the mouth
hands
ten times holy
the hands
kneading filth
and love equally
and each time taking charge
kneaded themselves and more delicate (how much more)
than the goldsmith’s tongs
a thousand times holy
if holy means perfect though soiled
hands
the torturer’s hands
what do you say to that holy
are they
and if they are not
our own hands
in their likeness
are no more holy
see what you get playing
with words too coarse
eyes
it’s crazy
how
eyes
belong and don’t belong to us
how they change and
go ingrown depending
on whom we’re watching
so during dinner when you and I cross
suddenly
the blades
of our gaze
your eyes are a body of water where
I set my
two boats with their sails fluttering
throat
unfurled
how to
imagine it
the throat
or then again long on its
flower-stem
petals broad
as thighs
and the black tongue knotted
as a dagger
dragged through
mud
words
one has
not said
feet
wingèd
you say
why not
but then
under the sheets
when seeking
a little cooling against burning dread
before tipping
open-mouthed
headfirst
into the hole
breasts
practically
just
emerged from the earth
the beans
you have to work up around the base
a hill a
little dome of earth
so that they don’t
collapse
I use my hand
for assistance
ear
ironwork
ultimate scroll of the
workmanship
the lovely
workmanship
locksmithery
rooster atop
the belltower swallowing the sky
we are
open
two-tongued open
and even forgotten clappers doors lintels
we are open
to currents of air water
milk the astonishing
orchestra
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