The Summer I translated Diane Seuss’s four-legged girl

the world came to an end, or so I thought. It was also the year

frank made its bold debut into the world. I started carrying it

around with me everywhere and anywhere I went as a lucky

charm. Words oozing from the pages onto the cobblestones,

the marble arches, the colossal statues, or resting their head

on the blades of grass contouring Keats’s tomb, or waving

their hand at Corso, the bad boy of poetry, bitching about

transcendence. Luminous rays sprang from the hinges, stupor

creeped out from an old ottoman. A paraphernalia of wonders.

Wunderkammer of curiosities. I headed on a confessional trip

wearing tight jeans over an abundance of flesh, the turquoise

ring flashing as a malachite dream on my middle finger. At

night an alluring voice droned in my ear tales of a serial killer –

with the lushness of a peacock’s feather out of a still life by

Rembrandt. I held your little girl’s hand in your hometown’s

funeral parlor in Michigan, the air thick with the gold of

remembrance. I petted snakes crossing our paths and savored

pages that tasted like NY, the Bowery, that Eden of thrill

& addiction. And posers. I would have rescued you from

Burroughs-the Harpy, from his snarky remarks complimenting

your pornography, from those mere few days’ brushing

with fame. I would have rescued you form Warhol’s blank

stare and from Love’s heartbreak. And now, in this timeless

summer, I cling to your humanity. It surfaces in my blood, it

gives me the shivers. It makes two extra legs stem from my torso.

It makes my four feet stomp the ground. It makes me want to

kick this dumb, dumb world’s fat ass.

What are you looking for?