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Inspirerad av Natasha Trethewey


Växtvärk

Jag gick till mammas grav,
där ogräs, gräs och sorg växte

runt hennes gravsten,
suddigt och tyst.

Grönskan tvingade sig ut
ur graven,
ur mammas artärer.
+++

Monument Today the ants are busy beside my front steps, weaving in and out of the hill they’re building. I watch them emerge and—   like everything I’ve forgotten—disappear into the subterranean—a world made by displacement. In the cemetery last June, I circled, lost—   weeds and grass grown up all around— the landscape blurred and waving. At my mother’s grave, ants streamed in and out like arteries, a tiny hill rising   above her untended plot. Bit by bit, red dirt piled up, spread like a rash on the grass; I watched a long time the ants’ determined work,   how they brought up soil of which she will be part, and piled it before me. Believe me when I say I’ve tried not to begrudge them   their industry, this reminder of what I haven’t done. Even now, the mound is a blister on my heart, a red and humming swarm.




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Läst 22 gånger och applåderad av 1 personer
Publicerad 2022-01-23 05:14



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