Don’t fool yourself, she said again, it isn’t only
my mouth, my breasts, not only my womb
that waits for you, to postpone for a day, an hour
the judgment of this absence crushing me
like an insect on the pane, no. There is, far
from the sea, with that beach where your waves
come, one after another, to give birth to wind.
There is, she says, there is
something faceless, voiceless: a field of snow
behind the hedge – winter has lasted there so long
that your suns, your glorious weekend
suns, were they ever to brush across it,
would melt instantly – and I’d be waiting
for you, alone and frozen beneath your touch.
Translated by Marilyn Hacker