Unbidden, in a constant surge, that’s how it comes. What it this “it”? It is the language all around us that begs transformation. It begs to be translated, juggled with, driven down etymological paths to dead-ends where knowledge fails.

No matter, for it backtracks and springs up anew, and slashes a track through overgrowth, climbs rocks, and swings from tree branches. I did once scream inside my head to the panoramic view of my village on the hillside that I am a translator. The village was silent. I wept.

I was smoking a cheap rolled cigarette, leaning against the wall of a laundry for that monologue. I had been elbow-deep in bleach perfecting the art of stain removal from sheets all morning. A daily penance for unknown sins. Clumsy swollen fingers not good for typing. But in those free ten minutes, my head was flooded with fresh, clean words that come – that always come, unbidden.

©2019 Allison Wright
[158 words]


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