Requirement

Blood that spurts like a waterpipe bursting,
blood that stains the white sheets and with force,
blood that comes like a scream that splits your guts,
blood that doesn’t mix with sweat because it’s so thick,
blood that gushes from between the thighs of one who’s just beginning,
the blood of women in hospital right now,
blood, this blood, in my poems.

Dafne

«Les meves fletxes fan més mal,
les meves fletxes són l’amor»,
va dir inflat d’orgull Eros a Apol·lo
mentre tensava l’arc amb precisió.
Mil anys va estar-se el fill de Zeus
perseguint Dafne, que el rebutjava,
mil anys creuant els boscos
provant d’acorralar-la,
i mil anys més nosaltres
repetint i repetint i repetint el mite
sense posar-lo en dubte, sense negar-lo.

Per què no vares dir-me, mare,
que no és dolor i no és condemna,
que no és persecució, l’amor,
que això és violència?

Daphne

"My arrows wreak greater harm,
my arrows are Love,"
Eros boasted to Apollo
as he tensed his bow precisely.
For a thousand years the son of Zeus
pursued Daphne, who rejected him,
a thousand years traversing forests
trying to corner her,
and a thousand years later we
repeat and repeat and repeat this myth
without stopping to question, to refute it.

Why don't you tell me, mother,
that this is not pain nor conviction,
that love is not pursuit,

that this is violence?