Translation

Because she dies at sea, we wear Vernean scuba diving suits to the wake. But because we do not know her, I ask the mime to eulogize Mother. This he does, Charlie Chaplin sans intertitle. From the mime we learn there are many stairs our mother climbed, many boats she rowed, and countless ropes she struggled to pull. From within our fish bowls, we sob. It turns out we hardly knew her. The mime neither acknowledges nor denies our prehistoric fear. When my siblings and I ask him for a transcript of the eulogy he motions to the man at his left, who repeats the eulogy in sign language. When we tell him that we do not know sign language, he nods his head to the stenographer, who writes what he signs in shorthand. When we tell her we do not read short hand, she has her translator transcribe. When the translator finishes scribbling the document, it is in Esperanto. We shriek. Our tears fill our scuba diving suits just below our nostrils. We can no longer speak without gurgling salt water. It nearly drowns us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

S p r i n g G u n P r e s s 2009

editor@springgunpress.com

 

 

 


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