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■ The oak
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2006-08-09 | | Submited by marlena braester
I speak today in memory of the words which once stuck in my mouth
in memory of the toothy gears which crushed syllables under my tongue and smelled the gunpowder in the gap between the gullet and the arid lips. My dream then was to smuggle the words packed like stolen goods in the mouth’s warehouse, to rip the cardboard boxes open and pull out the toys of the alphabet. The teacher would lay a hand on my shoulder and say that Moses, too, stuttered but nonetheless made it to Mt. Sinai. My mountain was a girl who sat next to me in class, and I had no fire in the bush of my mouth to ignite, before her very eyes, the words consumed by my love of her. Translated by: Vivian Eden
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