Daffodils in a glass of water, a phoebe singing behind the woodshed, and sun and sun and sun; but instead of cleaning the barn or planting shallots, Szymborska and I are off to a poetry festival. According to Hayden Carruth, "Poets are never liberals or conservatives, they are always radicals or reactionaries." I wonder why he wanted that comma splice because you can bet it wasn't an accident. I wonder if I should wear the brown dress or the blue dress, and I wonder why I care about which color to wear, but I don't find myself tempted to insert a comma splice into this sentence. Carruth, however, is a greater writer than I am, so he can force illegal commas to do his will.
Symborska says, "Why there's still all this space inside me / I don't know." Actually that's what her translators say. I don't know what she says.
If my grandmother had spoken Polish to my mother, my mother would have spoken Polish to me, and I would now know what Symborska is saying. But the nuns made my grandmother ashamed, so she gave up her language, and I have lost my inheritance.