My soul, my shadow, the dreams I stare into the night are wounded.

I kiss my mirror-self. The lips with which I bite are wounded.


I am a year filled with venom, every season

is autumn: leaf-filled evenings, the snaking twilight are wounded.


The signs of the stars – my Scorpio, my Libra,

Sagittarius pierced by his own arrow’s flight – are wounded.


The snorting bull, on whose proud horns the Earth is caught,

is heartsick. His heart, my heart, breaking at our plight, are wounded.


I have no country, no land, not even a room

the size of a grave. No sky. Centuries of starlight are wounded.


My father gives me food/ gave me water: childhood’s

homework. Beneath dust and blood, the pages are white, are wounded.


We are creatures without self, senses numbed by loss,

spirits broken. Our passions – sweet appetite – are wounded.


Our stories haemorrhage life’s pain from start to end:

my name, religion, memories, the words I write are wounded.