All the women in my life are hungry

I have written this one hundred times.
I do not know how else to tell it:
the girl by the roadside,
the bruised peach,
the narrow collar,
the night full of birds.

Her body is a long river
that cuts through every room.

See her in the kitchen,
see her standing behind the gate,
see how she cups her hands
for soap,
for bread,
for sweet milk.

Tell me,
where do I put her?
This girl pressed against the border,
this girl swallowing her papers whole,
this girl bird-wailing through a fence.

See her hands
holding the broken saucer,
stitching the skirt’s hem,
cradling the last orange,
begging the names of God.

Where do I put her?

Tell me what is owed.
Here, the fist of hair.
Here, the cut lip.
Here, the legs;
split like fruit.

Who will take her?
This sorrow-of-home-girl,
this river-of-bees-girl,
this night-singing-girl,
this throat full of ghosts.

****

[Courtesy of the author]

Link to the Italian translation