Je suis devant ce paysage féminin
comme une branche dans le feu.

I stand before this landscape at dusk
   jacklighted, caught in the high beams,
shocked into stillness, rapt, incapable
   of flight before the evening's radiance.
I stand in front of everything I've done
   knowing what happens if I don't move—
a horn blows, and I rush across the street.

   In front of everyone I have ever loved
and lied to, I stand, the scorpion I am,
   pinned to my shadow, on display,
like an insect still screaming its case
   in amber, in a collection of private griefs
hereby assembled, dusted and labeled
   by specialists who isolate each flaw