In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

Sandra Mortola Gilbert 109 In the Golden Sala Sandra Mortola Gilbert (2002) Sun of Sicilian hillside, heat of poppies opening like fierce boutonnieres of Apollo, light of Agrigento, fretting the sea and the seaside cliffs— light of the golden sala, the great sala of the ruined palazzo where my Sicilian grandmother and her nine children camped outside Palermo. Gold leaf, gold moldings, shredded tapestries with gold threads. ‘‘Once it belonged to a prince Mama kept chickens on the terrace but they came in sometimes, and the donkey too.’’ Gold chairs, gilt around the windows, angels with shining hair and empty eyes staring from the ceiling. ‘‘Mama made our beds in the corners: the big room scared us, we thought the prince’s ghost was there.’’ Gold railings where her laundry hung, gold curtains, new eggs under them. Her cooking fire in a corner, the center of the sala a cave of gold for spankings and scoldings. ‘‘Mama was a midwife, knew everything about herbs and births. The peasant women came from farms around Palermo so she could help them.’’ On floors still streaked with gold she made them spaces in the dazzling spaces where the prince once walked. Gold of forgotten dances, tattered rugs. When a new baby slid out in a splash of water he must have looked up, dazed, 110 in the golden sala toward the prince’s Apollonian light, and the black eyes of the midwife and the black eyes of the midwife’s nine black-haired children would have looked quizzically down, as if from a high cliff by the sea hot and yellow with new poppies. ...

Share