Every day I picture you dead.
Splayed between two traffic cones,
unresponsive. Punched into prayer
beneath a windscreen's cracked sky.
Face down in a puddle of yourself.
If you're two minutes late, I sense
police on the porch,
their loaded lips.

We are laughing lovers
in the reconstruction, just
moments before the attack.
The happy times. Pre-crash.

Last night, in bed, your arms
hurt like a jolted seatbelt.

///

O MEDO

Imagino-te morto todos os dias.
Esparramado entre dois cones de trânsito,
inconsciente. Amarfanhado a orar
debaixo do céu estilhaçado do para-brisas.
Cara mergulhada no charco de ti próprio.
Dois minutos mais tarde, sinto
a polícia no alpendre,
de lábios crespos.

Somos amantes risonhos
em reconstrução, justamente
momentos antes do ataque.
Tempos felizes. Antes da colisão.

A noite passada, na cama, os teus braços
doeram como um cinto de segurança solto.

by Caroline BIRD, in "THE POETRY REVIEW", Volume 105:2, Summer 2015

(Portuguese translated by Armando TABORDA, 2015)

(photo taken from Internet - published under the fair use doctrine for non-commercial educational purposes)

(post 1st edition, 2015; 2nd edition, 2017; 3rd edition, 2020)