|
On the Role of the Master
It was a good dog. She dearly wished for the dog to learn to speak. She loved the dog in spasms and imagined issuing the word (Speak!) with such force as a maestro might feel. Do I need a bowtie, she thought. Do I need a baton? If she had dressed in black and white, if she had felt more steadily golden…the tied lightning of her tongue didn’t make things easier. Strike, strike, blackdark quiet, strike.
|