Saturday Poem

In corrals of the carniverous
every lowly muscle twitches.

Easter in the Oven

The goat kept on bleating hoarsely.
I angrily opened the oven what’s all the noise I asked
the guests can hear you.
Your oven’s not hot, it bleated
do something otherwise your cruelty
will go hungry and at festive time too.

I put my hand inside. It was true.
The head the legs the neck
the grass the pasture the crags
the slaughter all cold.

by Kiki Dimoula
from A minute´s licence
publisher: Poetry Greece, Corfu, 2000
translation: David Connoly

Original Greek after the jump