This is the way a row of official tulips
commands you “Do not pick the flowers,”
hoping that they’ll be picked up when it gets dark.
This is the way a girl’s vagina, weeping
from virile fingers, pleads for mercy,
hoping that mercy will never be granted.
This is the way I pray “Don’t let me live in Russia,”
knowing well my prayers will not be answered.
Translated by Derek Walcott