Erín Moure & Elisa Sampedrin

Grief (A Dor)


What if a stone fell bright in my fingers,
under night’s tarpaulin, with the cattle resting
and with the stone i was golden
and incongruous; pregnant with stone’s face
animating my sobs
and forbidding me smooth sleep

Yet i sleep with the grandeur of cattle everyday
sewing used clothes
that were torn when the stone fell.
Yet in my sleeping, a cataract may come to roar
with its forehead alternating spray,
with a shoulder captured alternating sore

So that those asleep at the foot of the roar
their tremulous vision altered by the roar
the face of their vision altered by the roar

where they lay, just as a trout leaps out of spray,
while i sleep in the tent with knees up to chin
sewing used clothing with the eye beam fallen from stone.