“Sister Ruth Picks Lice from S.Z.’s Head (1948)”
L’enfant se sent, selon la lenteur des caresses,
Sourdre et mourir sans cesse un désir de pleurer.
—Rimbaud, “Les Chercheuses de poux”
Little S.Z. refuses to cry, drowning
in the folds of the nun’s black wings.
The other children are also red-eyed;
even the tough guys are quiet.
She dips her fingers in a dish of kerosene;
the acrid smell makes him queasy.
Her breath burns the backs of his ears;
her nails move like plows across his scalp.
A click here, a click there:
that’s all there is. No real pain after all,
only the sarcasm of her caresses
and the embarrassment of being unclean.