Giantess and the Fountain of the Giants
* Dear John, our recipe’s fallen among the flour and egg. The measurements miss their original number and fervor, a langue franca rolled in raw batter. As a result, we grew gigantic. Living makes manifest otherwise intangible receipts into squab, a mother sauce. Into small pots: egg cracked over a bowl. We should all know: I came folded in, folded in. The hands that burned on the cookery also undid the door-latch, fly on a pair of pants till more was made and enough was not enough. I grew tall, reaped nests from the top branches cradling spit and wood—whole systems in which I play no part. How humiliating. Soon I snapped each and every bird between thumb and forefinger, eating to keep cloud-steady, ingredients below yet to be combined, the potential chemistry an undiscovered country. * Dear Lesley, the gardens here function as prelude to the stone monstrosity they call a fountain and the water is nothing but a tearstain on the cheek of this decrepit continent. Holding up the world can be tiring. If you feel you must, you must. You say you’ve grown larger due to overeating, just hyperbole. Truly we are the smallest creatures in the universe. This is what I feel when lounging safely in Italy— my own country a giant’s forehead pulsing with the rainwater we’ve come to call ocean. Those three ships, one for each state of mind, sail from crown to brow. And you thought it took ages to reach paradise! The move was small as a drop of spray blurring our vision for a moment then melting back into the already present river that pours through us its many gallons per year.