I look at her, small as she is, between my fingers,
round and white like the moons I used to paint
at school when I didn’t know that pain adopts
a spherical shape and always goes back and begins again.
Now it is the tongue that looks at her, questions her
in the damp dark of the mouth, letting her go
at last, crossing woods made of saliva
which will bring her to the land of fear. But
she knows the way without ever having been there
in her life, she, small as she is, round and harsh,
she knows which way lies the vein
that aches, how to send the heart slowly to sleep,
how to sprinkle dust on capillaries, how to unravel
what has been woven. Where has she learned
mercy’s patient craft? She, so small,
round and slow as the moons I used to paint
at school when I didn’t know that rest adopts
a spherical shape and always goes back and begins again.