It’s the glow of women on magazine covers. Cliffs on the Iberian coast. That blue on blue sky on sea, the shallow depths along Pula, its Roman amphitheater, an almost remembered odor of gladiators, a sweaty horizon, the dull ache after tooth extraction, this small woman waiting for her husband to emerge almost tall again, his trembling hand in his pocket, insouciant as sunrise. Who wouldn’t ask for opinion, where the heart skips a beat, the lung implodes (only for two seconds), and a song moans (groans, simpers, pleads, seeps, oozes) like a overly thin rouged singer in a 1930s. film? Is that me bent over, kissing your hand?
John Allman | Dedication Contents | Mudlark No. 48 (2012)