Margaret Atwood

Marsh Languages

The dark soft languages are being silenced: Mothertongue Mothertongue Mothetongue falling one by one back into the moon. Language of marshes, language of the roots of rushes tangled together in the ooze, marrow cells twinning themselves inside the warm core of the bone: pathways of hidden light in the body fade and wink out. The sibilants and gutturals, the cave languages, the half-light forming at the back of the throat, the mouth’s damp velvet moulding The lost syllable for ‘I’ that did not mean separate, all are becoming sounds no longer heard because no longer spoken, and everything that could once be said in them has ceased to exist The languages of the dying suns are themselves dying, but even the word for this has been forgotten. The mouth against skin, vivid and fading, Can no longer speak both cherishing and farewell. It is now only a mouth, only skin. There is no more longing. Translation was never possible. instead there was always only conquest, the influx of the language of hard nouns, the language of metal, the language of either/or, the one language that has eaten all others.

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