Sickening metaphors
and a real and deadly illness
as metaphor. It is inside me,
says the woman, touching the fabric
on her belly. A month ago
it was like a mandarin and now, the doctor
says it is almost like an orange.
Not a fist, not a clenched stone,
but fruit from exotic countries.
The holidays are coming, poetry is on the move.



Translated by Frank L. Vigoda