(i)
The day's heat
hangs in his throat,
the tube of a desert
all sandy
and scorched dry,
a shrunk
pipe yelling out
for water
and cold fresh fruit.
The sliced mangoes
on the dining
table pull him
on light sneaky
egret legs
to the bumblebee
and lemon fruit
waiting to be grabbed.
(ii)
But he's faced
with darted missiles
of fruit flies
rising in clouds
to clothe him
in brown greyish
warp and weft
weaves, a fabric
of bugs
hemming in with
the dotted lines
of zigzag
and running stitches
of the bugs
in rows and columns
parading over
each other, as he smacks
and slaps them off.
(iii)
He's gulped down
many pitcher-sized
tumblers of water,
but his throat
is still so dry it rips
itself into
the sand-grain
mouth
of a camel's withheld thirst,
as he pulls out
another tray
of fresh sliced pineapples.
These yellow
tongue-sharpening flames
of a fruit hit him
with a stormy aroma
shot at his nose
like the fragrance
of a hyacinth's windy sniff,
a magnet that pulls in
more dancing bugs.
(iv)
Pineapple, the crowned
king of sweetness,
he mutters to himself,
as he slams a piece
down his throat,
but a tic
of his right hammer palm
lands on his cheek
to smash off a floating bug
on his upper lip,
the bug sailing off
after a cartwheeled jump,
leaving him
with a shaking tooth
to hurl arrows
across his mouth
from a burning nerve.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem