by J.C. Todd
Comasia,
That morning above
Tetova and below the fretted
peaks of the Šar massif, our spirits
topsy-turvy, flushed clear by ozone
and early snow, we looked back
down the cirque to the city, a dollop
in the white-pocked valley held in place
by minarets, and saw how firmly
we are pinned by the bulk of flesh.
What
is the root of such language in me,
etymology so personal
it sprouts from my cells?
A volume, thick,
on a scarred tabletop, acid-orange
light of late afternoon in a mill
town glazing the page. Pittsburgh. It’s me,
reading in the nave, hair held back by
a babushka like I saw in Vogue.
Oxblood loafers, madras skirt, circle
pin. It must be Purgatorio,
Dante’s distinction between the flesh
of earthly attachment and the body
through which absolution is obtained.
The tongue—I remember it!—is flesh,
language is body, images lodged
in the seedbeds of cells, lie dormant
until miraculous bloom.
So what
if I have no Italian and you
have unstable English? Our emails
crosswrite, we read between the lines, pass
over to each other, not on words
but on that snowtop flare of greeting—
friend to friend. Wind tore what you said,
I half-heard. Our speaking—how garbled.
Transported in it, our language—pure.
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J.C. Todd
J. C. Todd’s current poems respond to the dislocations of war. Author of What Space This Body (http://windpub.com/books/WhatSpace.htm), her poems have appeared in The Paris Review, American Poetry Review, Big Bridge, Wild River Review and elsewhere.
Recipient of a Pennsylvania Council on the Arts poetry fellowship, Leeway Foundation awards, and fellowships to US and international artist colonies, she has appeared at poetry festivals in the Baltics, Macedonia and Italy and edited translation features of contemporary Lithuanian and Latvian poems (www.thedrunkenboat.com).
A consultant with the Dodge Poetry Program, Todd teaches at Bryn Mawr College and in the MFA Program at Rosemont.
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