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François Trémolières 
Peter Skelton, Translator
Translated from the French by Peter Skelton
Early one morning
my father packed the car
and normally so taciturn
warned me that journey would be long
along the empty roads we sped
past all the girly billboards
three days and three nights
with heavy hearts on leashes
we opened and shut the motel doors
he never stopped talking of his land and his love
and of the trash in the tabloids
and children found dead on beaches
but it´s too easy to escape into death
to fling oneself off the cliff to smash one´s body into smithereens
and blend one´s blood with the breakers
I recall
climbing up the mountain tracks
I was loved
like the calf fattened for the slaughter
I dreamt
of a huge conflagration
up on the peak,
the blinding flash
all white
I was struck down by lightening
consumed by death through a kiss from the Lord
beneath the awesome countenance of Abraham my father
racked with pain I thought God wanted me to die
and suddenly happy I found faith
in the sublime sacrifice and thought
I could see more clearly than he with his tearful eyes
his arm old but invested with incredible strength
which I was incapable of resisting
my only hope of escaping lay
in uniting in the incandescent love in his heart
but then the heavens remained grey like a day without rain
and I found myself tossed onto the bush by a strong swell
breathless, my kidneys punctured
then
above me
my father looking dumbfounded
after the knife under its own weight had averted his hand
he wiped his brow, and with renewed vigour
he slayed the calf
drunk with the fumes of flesh and blood
then turning his back
he signalled me to follow
down to the town
we know not why we live
amidst such indifference
and you standing half naked on the beach
in sun and shadow so secretely soft
you walk
like a cloud in the sky
filling up the emptiness
and with your finger you caress my skin, kindling hope
marking the spot for the knife to strike
pressing your lips on my neck
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