1. the lapdogs are howling at the full moon again,
and i’ve taken up the practice of leashing them
to the iron gate
as the doorbell rings – she is begging me to open up,
and it is prepossessing. the world is falling
2. she says. the champagne bottles have
splintered into fragments on the floor
of the underground cellar. i am tracking each
step with bloody footprints, i have forged a
road and followed it. like a map shuddering
from the page
of an atlas. the zigzag of a broken back,
the titan’s bad blood runs in my veins – i’d tear open my
3. chest for her, but i’m afraid of the boy with
comely lips who waits patiently for dawn. he is the perfect
archetype, i watch him trim his nails with heartbeat,
scrape knuckles on the lowdown. i don’t
remember meeting him, i think
he lives in all of us,
4. the stars look more like light pollution,
peering through my reflection.
"I wrote this because I was interested in tagelied translations, since my heritage is German. However, I wanted to write something with a different take on it."
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