Let the tea draw till it recalls who we love.

Some nook in a corner of your mouth

must hold the essence of bergamot.

We’re forever being done in

tripping over our tongues

(that ‘s’ of his that feeds

my need to sop him up).

And you’re so palatal, so on the edge…

a likeness buried under your wisdom teeth.

The god of phonology would never have grown

had the meaning not sprayed its sperm

over the howls.

My vocal cords are become straps

for this endless wreckage.

The ‘g’ will ring the little bell of my glottis

like a runaway train we hoped would stop.

And your name

cleaved to my palate,

like communion.

It’s not easy to say earl grey

Bonjour monsieur, I would like an earl grey.

But what I’m after

now that just can’t be said.

Translation by Keith Payne