I wore off my tongue
like candy,
and by the end of summer I lost
leaves and petals.
The cave in my palate
was empty for three thousand years.
Neither paintings, nor campfires.
I would say with my eyebrows:
how beautiful, the heights!
how beautiful, the glaciers!

I lean out, irresponsible
like a cliff.
My gaze is a barn,
a glass jar
an atmosphere,
God choosing the colour of feathers.
And I who have
the path to birth so narrow
spawn one more animal.

You place words
like a tablecloth,
like a pair of panties,
like the sheet
covering a corpse,
like snow falling
on the kitchen garden,
like kids who swim
without reaching the bottom.

When the salt set sail from the salt-cellar
my pothole filled with water.
Green water. White water.
Starlings and bees
came to offer themselves up.
Pond skaters crossed,
tiptoeing, the puddle.
Just like Jesus would have stepped
on my wound.

Santa Cecilia de Molló
is always hungry,
and it rises, slightly sloping,
at the end of two pilgrim roads,
your legs.
I offer oranges and shortbread to it,
and your hands descend
like a redemption.
Verses and fears
stir the soil in the forest far away,
and feral, they cross the road.

Photograph © FEARstyle