No Precipice
I'm holding out a grape leaf
the sheep come over to munch on it
and now I hate
and I love
that roughest tongue
those yellow and unreal eyes
that pull me into their suppliant whorl.
I want to go to them
past my hand, beyond the vine
want them to eat my body up
because a strange kind of peace turns me inside out
leads me
absurdly
deliciously
to no precipice at all.
[Translated from Olalla Cociña's Ningún Precipicio, originally published in Galician by Toxosoutos, 2013]
