THE GATE
Excerpt LVII
It is difficult, of course, to talk of things while they
occur, old men
waited to read what they had seen with their own
eyes in tomorrow’s newspapers; they didn’t know
which version was the most accurate. I waited to
find them inverted inside of me; the others were in
a hurry because of me. I thought they were right.
I had spread the wet sackcloth over three chairs,
one on top of the other,
so the clay statue was visibly ready. I had placed
the metal measuring tape, the trowel, the gobbet
on the floor.
The clay, he kept on saying, the clay, the clay.
He kneed it with his fists trying to mould statues
and real bread to feed the hungry.
Clay is my material, he said, clay isn’t eaten; so
alone.
Manolis Aligizakis 