Butterfly Effect - ressourcesfeministes

137
The Dead
i
The dead press their faces up against mine.
They speak to me endlessly of the past.
Souls clamour as I near the
caterwauling realm of the dead.
I seek my mother, but cannot
find her in this murky-aired vault.
They speak to me. They tell me stories
of their lives. But all I want is to speak with her.
They say, First you must listen to us, you
must hear our grief. Then you are free
to speak with her. The bench is hard. I will
not eat of the food of the dead. This much I
have already learned. The table is filled
with fruit: apples, pomegranate, plums,
grapes, wild roses. Red onions, carrots,
plaited bread and a glass of red wine
are left to tempt me. The storytellers take
their places around the table and begin.
ii
My name is Charlotte. She brushes back her
corn blond hair. My mother, her sister,