Chaque poème que je sculpte dans le bois pour ma muse égarée
Est un bout de sentier lumineux que je façonne
Dans la glaise de la route de mon pèlerinage infatigable
A la recherche des volcans éteints de ma muse.
C'est un chemin de Compostelle
Que j 'ai semé de ma trace d'olisbos de bois noir tendus vers le cosmos
avec son image gravée
Qui stridulent de plaisir à l 'approche de la lune descendante.

C'est seulement hors sève que mes mots acceptent
En holocauste que ce bel ébène de bonne grâce
Soit coupé scié laminé en bonne lune
Pour servir de festin lubrique à ma muse.

Oh my God, dit ma muse
Qui pourtant ne parle pas la langue de Shakespeare,
Eblouie par la majestueuse forêt de godemichés
De belle patine couleur miel
En repos végétal.
In God we trust, lui répond en stridulant
toute l 'animalité volatile perchée au sommet de Priape
Entre roses et croix :
Ultreïa ! Ultreïa ! Et Suseïa ! Musa adjuva nos !

Ma muse devant un tel charivari frissonne
Prend ses jambes à mon cou
et dégouline du diable vauvert
Sans demander son reste de canon à cent voix
Maudissant les molles bandaisons du poète infidèle
et vouant aux gémonies la lune, cette dévergondée,
L 'accusant de guet-apens et autres sornettes
Artificielles et sordides.

Ultreïa ! Ultreïa ! Et Suseïa ! Musa adjuva nos !

You told me I could fall asleep
Laying on your chest,
The rise
And fall
Of your breathing
Urging me to rest.

The unearthly zephyr sang stridulant verses
Transuding through the window
The hibernal ghost couldn’t touch you or I,
Underneath our lullaby.
Thwack.
Awake.
You wrapped your fingers around my neck
The skin red and raw
You screeched to me, questioned who I was
The only word that escaped was ‘more’

The concavity of where you laid
Was warm under my heavy skull
My thoughts drifted
To the beat of your feet
Silently
Inevitably
Creeping
Away.

The light bled through the pullulating slit
Where you disdained me a final time
You left without knowing you’d left a thing
Call it forgetting.
Theft.
Crime.

Where was this cryptic noise conceived?
I wondered that a while
It was your flesh
Your bones and blood
Your heart and soul
Your child.

It's a frame of maybe 15 seconds, but my head has refused to let it go.
My brain has engraved it behind my eyeballs and plays the audio on loop in my eardrum, demanding it to be remembered.

The light in me projects the image from behind my eyes onto the big screen,
Causing me to double over in fear.
Her voice pours out of my ears, joining the picture, becoming a film.

She is on the floor, curled into a ball, helpless.
Repeating "This can't be happening" like a broken DVD.
Her hands are over her head, gripping onto it with white knuckles,
Trying to keep the room from spinning.
Her eyes are squeezed shut, but the tears are still falling.
The lighting is dim.
The hall providing the only source of light to illuminate her.
This can't be happening.
Her voice;
So broken, so fragile.
Switching from tones of hopelessness to absolute terror.
It's evident in the pitch change.
First, low and detached.
But contorting to stridulant and alarmed as the seconds forge on.

Several years later and I am still being forced to relive the moment.
I mimic her exterior, praying for it to be over soon.
Clenching my eyes shut, in attempt to put the image out.
Covering my ears with my hands, trying to mute her cries.
But there's no use.
She is still there, curled on our hallway floor
In the middle of the night
Hands over her head and mouth moving to repeat the same words,
This can't be happening.
This can't be happening.
This can't be happening.
I am so far from this memory,
But it haunts me still.