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The woman beside me is French. I conjugate verbs and try to form a sentence. My Italian was better than her Spanish or so she said, amusing herself with a presentment, how different paths meet. A screen door slammed as a dark body ran between houses. Four languages revolve in my mind. Aware that I too am unwashed, my sleep penetrates the pungent recesses of my companion’s body. “Man shall know nothing of this” and yet he insinuates himself. Lint and stray hairs like rainbow amoebas adhere to the garment’s black weave (graminaceous machines from a post-dated page). Is it possible to be fluent? To make any language an own thing?
Donald Wellman | Mudlark No. 34 |