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Thick Description
Eleanor Chai
I cut lines of ink as I read through the night.
in far sources. I make them intimate,
I make them mine with the speed of light.
He was seventeen, just a man, still a boy and ready to die.
A true sacrifice, a living encounter --
This father has paid
the sum of a daughter's dowry for his son to be consecrated
with a rod through his cheeks and tongue. The boy's face,
His clove-jelly eyes float and metamorphose into my mother's
eyes, eyes I can't possibly remember without images like his --
I can make anything mean what I need to find.
longing is not looking at me: I am looking at it.
Every description is thick with a will to revivify --
Blind hunger drives when I read. A scream, the echo of
a scream, hangs over that Nova Scotian village ... and bit
in that scream -- unheard, in memory. She came alive
with no speech. A noun transformed to modify
action revived her, returned her to me.
The words as they lay may refuse to say what you need.
Drop to your knees. Crawl beneath the overhanging,
to live. It survives by swallowing.
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