Claire-Sara Roux
The song is choked
The word
No longer waters the desert
Where is the nightingale
In the crevices of Sinai
By the bones of the bleached
Hunters?
The willows
No longer skirt the quick streams
Small birds with no mystery
Cut up the sky into
Crazy arabesques
Of every destiny
Even poetry
Is mortal
(Translated from the French by Jim Barnes)
Claire-Sara Roux
Captives among the stalks
The ingenious cows
Display the parchment of liberty
Seas archipelagos continents islands
Living maps of the world they offer
The secret geography of their flesh
On their branded flanks
The key to the fields
The milk of dreams
(Translated from the French by Jim Barnes)
Dagmar Nick
Flushing the Game
Late summer, this sense
of parting ahead.
The door to the shaded home
already slams behind you.
Wind that spans the distance:
your roads of tomorrow.
What you have lost
you must borrow once more.
Until the storm breaks,
you still may camp outdoors.
The shots during the night
need not be meant for you.
You stumble onto fox traps
hidden in the field.
But not until the jay warns you
do you know the chase is on.
(Translated from the German by Jim Barnes)
