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Start by following Gemma Gorga.
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“Up until a certain afternoon, at closing time, the librarian may come and return me to the shelf where I belong, the precise place where someone grabbed me one fine day, who knows why, perhaps to learn to translate sadness into another language, perhaps to love me as a beloved book—that is, forever. No, not forever. — Gemma Gorga, from poem “31,” Book of Minutes, transl. Sharon Dolin (Oberlin College Press, 2019)”
― Book of Minutes
― Book of Minutes
“I ponder it now, while holding this new book in my hands, the words still slick like the feathers of a newly hatched bird."
—Gemma Gorga”
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—Gemma Gorga”
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“Pomegranate"
I pry out the seeds with my fingers and all
my memories spill onto the frosty marble
counter. Little, lit up like ruby-red carnival lights,
rough as the cat tongue of Time
inviting us to sit at the table to gobble us up
in a mouthful. The pomegranate returns
late autumn, ready to ruin us, on whichever night
we are in the kitchen, distracted by dinner: very lightly
it stains our fingers that pensive, murky color,
the color hours take on that won’t
clot—the open color of memory.”
―
I pry out the seeds with my fingers and all
my memories spill onto the frosty marble
counter. Little, lit up like ruby-red carnival lights,
rough as the cat tongue of Time
inviting us to sit at the table to gobble us up
in a mouthful. The pomegranate returns
late autumn, ready to ruin us, on whichever night
we are in the kitchen, distracted by dinner: very lightly
it stains our fingers that pensive, murky color,
the color hours take on that won’t
clot—the open color of memory.”
―
