Dead I engage the traumatic line
to house these words: write them on
my unmarked grave: “this one can’t write, she dies
roosting on the basket of undigested things
her manias unclear”.
— Amelia Rosselli, “Maybe I’ll die, maybe I’ll leave you these” (trans. Giuseppe Leporace and Deborah Woodard)
And the rotating tongue of the fallen saints with the
matches who were about to set heaven ablaze
so rent by calculated sermons to the cream
of youth. Not even shackled youth can say
who will be its father, for it hates him, but it can recognize
its mother, who suckles it. I will live in a multitude
but I’ll keep a clear head, said that shark who’s
dead by now.
— Amelia Rosselli, “The Dragonfly” (trans. Giuseppe Leporace and Deborah Woodard)
Whales engender time. Men eat each other. Superstitious women spin a revolution favoring adult suffrage, flowers of speech, damask roses & trumpets & drums.
— Danielle Dutton, “Virginia Woolf’s Appendix”