TE20 Migrant Mosaics

Ben Sloan

spread apart. The entire surface area of the bottom of her shoe planted itself on thegreengrass. The Easterdinnergrass, perfectly cut. Next clip: a fork and a knife. A fork stabbing vegetables. A knife shaving meat from a bone. The fork and the knife on the empty plate, neatly resting side by side. That’s what you do when you want to tell the cook that the meal was good , Birke’s grandmother whispered.

Then, the projector broke. The room went dark. What was the man with the brown felt hat up to?

Voices echoed in the room—voices she knew, using phrases and words that had been spoken to her ever since shewas born: words, intonations, rhythms which meant everything and nothing in one. A language of the idyllic. A dialect of avoidance.

Naja , someone would respond to something she said.

Jooo , someone would respond to something she said.

Naa .

Alsoo .

She saw the way they pursed their lips as if they were going to kiss someone and nod their heads back and forth in indifference, only to have these words—no— noises puff out of their mouths and those fish lips. But it couldn’t have been indifference, right? They must have real answers to those questions. They must feel guilty 210