Sandy Tseng
Babel The dusting of footprints scatter across the ocean. With it, jasmine tea leaves, curry powder, pottery shards. There are translations that never reach the ears. In the beginning the Word gave breath to the hand, narrator of needless tragedies. Childbirth, before the Father cursed it, came without trauma-a silkworm spinning cocoons in the mulberry tree. Everything was named after the seventh day: weeping willow and goose feather down, bread sweet as clover honey.
Summer • Fall 2006
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