from Triste Tristan

Paol Keineg

Give weight to her breasts
lift them up with both hands —
life in the fields
a bit rough
with the pissing cows —
Iseut is sick to her stomach
of being torn open       '
belly to sell not for sale,
everyone's object of desire
lives under trees.

The moonlight again
so round, dispensing selves —
round, astonished eyes
see distant satellites —
funny how bloodless the real.

A cottage for two hearts —
mum or swearing,
they recoil from a unified tale —
the hermit in this remote place
is a foil of a good god good goddamn
good evening good teller of tales —
a pause in the Morrois forest,
can't stop pissing — he draws
his bow most tight, the arrow's for her.

Clavicle, sternum, breast of the man —
Iseut anal, oral, social, a sport,
pawed near the wells —
complains: get a move-on,
big savage — erogenous
zones planted with gorse —
he marks his territory with piss,
she gets up on her hind legs.

Ear to the ground
strip bare whom you'll betray —
undress her ass
in the lyric tradition
screams sublimated
into scientific exhibits —
balls aching
for love of poetry.

Uniform pink
the tongue
deceives — glorious bodies
apart at the hip —
masterful brains
by the long fucks.

Kelenn, the holly that, in spite of its name, doesn't teach —
she puts her head on his lap,
closes her eyes against sleep —
would be a great fragrant void,
an amphibian.

translated from the French by Rosmarie Waldrop