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has walked barefoot
over the waters
and left a trace
of toxic silver

that now seeks to infiltrate the soft memory
of mollusks and sea grass,
of idle crabs at the waxing crescent,
of these creatures made of water and prayer
that we too are made of.

Slowly, cautiously,
we’ll be returning to the Renaissance symmetry
of the shell’s interior,
to the soothing sound of vital signs.

We asked for a different miracle
(neither light, nor trumpets, nor fish multiplying
in outrageous excess).

A more intimate gesture
and drier,
more akin to the handful of salt
we too are made of.


Translated from the Catalan by Sharon Dolin

All translated work in this issue is supported by a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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