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The Deluge

An Amazon gallops up to me on a white charger and takes me to a smiling wilderness: steep mountains, a rocky steppe, a blue lake that grows larger each time I look at it. The young boy who is I is mesmerized by this risk. It reminds him of the blue of your eyes, remnants of a particular light or a weeping, night vigils, your envious alarm at my growing body. I shelter from this nostalgia in a declining hotel, erected on the summit of a promontory. Now it is raining as well. I peer out. Green shutters, the odor of summer. My eyes transfixed, the steppe will soon become an ocean and the hotel a boat twinkling on the banks of the wind. We have begun to capsize. There is no one left to stop that light that razes us and like an angel bears us off to absolute exposure.


1994, Maria Negroni. Translation 1997, Anne Twitty.

ARCHIPELAGO Vol. 1, No. 1, Spring 1997

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