I take a taxi back to earth, my tears dripping onto the upholstered seat. The driver turns around, worried.
Kitchen full of black aunties sighed, outraged with Grandma’s lack of respect for the written word and the bloody stamp in the corner of the page. Nobody questioned the war death. She was the only one who put her foot down.
Definitely, [the one thing that can save America] is not a thing that can be found and grasped or a message to be sent and read. It is more of a process that we can enjoy in all its inconclusiveness."
I go about the house on all fours / On tiptoe I hide in corners / Make believe I’m an old cloak / A broom for sweeping
The prose forms Miłosz employs in this collection seem to free him from the rhetorical and formal scaffolding of his poetry, allowing keen insights into quotidian moments and everyday objects while remaining unencumbered by the complex demands of verse.