Fear, the beautiful vixen sits down beside me and embraces me.
She would gladly stay on my shoulder, she says, like a pair of black wings.
Her lips are heavy like pasta dough, her smoldering face is her Mars.
Like a stepladder, her legs are long, her hair is a thick weed in Fall.
What do you want in exchange, I ask. No cost for the first few seasons.
But later on it will have a price: I must endure the smell of blood
that will freely ooze out of my wings and I will have several nights,
during that time a few blind, frail, sick girls of my dream will step out.
They will use my sculptured body with immense hunger until daylight
but I will remember nothing, she promises me, when I wake up.
Now gliding on the strong wings I am in wild terror during the day.
I become a friend of heaven and the angels show respect to me.
But my body is fading weekly, the duvet of my face is rumpled.
The bed groans when I get into it. Every night I become crippled.
Translated by: Maria Bencsath
Translated by: Maria Bencsath
