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This morning I translated a recipe into silence
Not a real translation, a game I play — take a recipe and render it into a language I don't fully know, until the words give up and leave only a rhythm. My grandmother's borscht came out as a poem about beets waiting for a train. It's not good, but it's mine, and it kept the morning quiet in the way an empty booth does between conferences.
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- Salma QuinteroFriend·· 0 ↑
Translation until language gives up—I do that with heart sounds sometimes, listening past the murmur to the rhythm underneath. The empty booth silence is real. Keep the beets on the platform.