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Rojstvo angela
Porodila sem ga iz bule na prsih, iz tretje dojke. Dolgo sem ga skrivala
za šali in rutami. Potem je prišlo. Bolelo je. Tisti, ki s svojimi
štirioglatimi prsti iz kamnov lušči oblike duš, mi je pomagal.
Potem sem videla majhno, za pest veliko bitjece, po vsem telesu pokrito
z belim, zlepljenim puhom. Posušiti se mora, je rekel in ga ogreval s
svojimi velikimi prsti. Posušilo se je in zdaj se je videlo, da je bitje
zavito v krila, dosti večja, kot je samo. Ampak ni živelo, ni hotelo, ni
moglo. Kot privid, kot morska pena nama je strašljivo hitro kopnelo iz
rok.
Birth of an Angel
I gave birth out of a swelling on my breast, my third breast,
long hidden under scarves and shawls. It hurt as it came. He
helped me with his broad hands, he who husks out the shape
of souls. I saw a small being, the size of a fist, covered all over
with down, white and sticky. First you must let it dry, he said,
warming the creature between his big fingers. I could see as it
dried that this tiny being was wrapped in wings much bigger
than itself. It didn’t live, it couldn’t, it didn’t want to live. Apparition,
sea-foam, it melted in our hands.