Kleidleid
pierced fabric
empty of flesh
covered with scales
breath of skin
not mouth
i wanted to exhale
another me
make an A from an E
without a rib
only a needle
of letters
pull out this thread of loss
the line that leaves no trace
unloose the old pages
the white spaces
thread yourself in
resew me
on the next page
[Untitled]
on the atlas of my skin
your names
I sense them, sing them
in the first language and the second
lost luggage that spins
on the axis
of the first shoulder and the second
and all the past
in a single point
Ekdysis
A scale of your skin
at the end of the hall
there where the sea dies out
and no one waits to ferry
across.
Maybe you already left, maybe you never came
the sea brings no news of you or others
only Flaschenpost, bottled language
at dinner, lunch
at breakfast.
Words flowing freely,
words with their skin turned inside out
all taste of corked wine, of translation.
From the section “Tattoos” in Volti di parole. © 2010 Eva Taylor. By arrangement with the author. Translation © Olivia Sears. All rights reserved.
