The Awakening Slave
by Ruth Zamoyta
I wake to you in the quarry
And cry for you to take me.
Your slaves heave me onto a cart
And I follow you here.
First you free my knee, my shin,
chisel gliding across my skin—
you know where rock stops and life begins.
Then my ribs, nipples, fibers, grooves,
veins with still-lingering blood,
writhing arms, one left undone,
genetali beg your hands return.
You work two days without rest,
release my hand and I feel your breast,
free my nose and I smell your sweat,
open my ear and I hear your breath
and your whispered plea—
Desti a me quest’anima divina
e poi la imprigionasti in un corpo debole e fragile—
and the thump of your body
falling spent beside me,
overcome by ardor.
You waken, moments later,
with the cry I cannot voice—
the pain of waking alone.
You free my face, grimacing, cocked,
clamped by rock;
unveil my eyes and I see yours, black,
in a face of my dust, staring back.
Senza liberarti, saresti più utile:
come lezione di peso e futilità.
With my ear I hear the chisel drop,
and with my eye I see you walk away.
I cannot move my arms to make you stop
Or part my lips and beg you stay.