Catalan

CATALAN / Michael Mott Today, under police posters the rain has cancelled two shiny yellow claws stretch up from the grill as though chickens were trapped in the gutters This is the end of the village An unpaved road winds away to a ruined mill The two mechanics and four laborers backed to the wall one August night in a glare of headlights were there only to make up a number in somebody's head One raised his fist one blocked his ears He would stare down the light He would be deaf to his death —Man is the only animal who guards his dead said Miguel de Unamuno a philosopher who had forgotten elephants and perhaps much else In the kingdom of flesh and bone of men and animals the mistake of those with a tragic sense is to overlook life Today in August 38 · The Missouri Review a few women go up the road to the mill Their heels are slanted inwards they walk unsteadily leaning on one another Their dresses are lacquered as if with the ink of forty five years One carries a bunch of blue flowers with a name in Catalan The flower heads are heavy they sway, full of shadows Gravely, they bow to the street then, like women talking draw closer together Michael Mott THE MISSOURI REVIEW · 39 ...