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Poetry

God does not give me peace. God is my goad.
He bites my heel like a snake,
makes himself verb, meat, glass shard,
stone against which my head bleeds.
I cannot rest in this love.
I cannot sleep in the light of this eye fixed on me.
I want to return to my mother’s womb,
her hand flat against her bloated belly,
hiding me from God.

Translated from the Portuguese by Jessica Goudeau


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