A copy of Sandra Alland's poem "Leaf Climber" and two vellum leaves are all that is left after the installation comes to an end.
using 47 words from “palabra/word, leaf/hoja/page” by Mark Schafer and David Huerta
On the ground, suspendido.
Above her, a mirror.
She takes a step. Immediately ondulación.
The sun twisted in concavity.
A whispered orilla tickles her ear,
accidental irony linked to order.
A minute higher,
a silk hand flutters in the wind—
cristal pálido a cup of sand
the burning angle of sharp flags
Another milímetro up,
and she forgets her name
in a crevice between branches.
She cannot pry the concept of drowning from that of bread.
Nameless, she is becoming.
But her cocoon is twisted around the sharpest edge of the knife.
In the uppermost heights lurks doubt,
its materia leaving an explosion of footprints
as it withdraws from sight.
Following, she deposits herself
into the radiant exit,
but escapes diagonal at the last moment.
(Imagines an insomniac fucking with syllables in the northeast, all pricks un-sharpened)
This is enough to go on.
Behind a leaf lurks burnt vertigo.
There, she leaves a piece of her heart,
a súplica for the return of her lover’s confidence.
An ivory wind.
The hazy mechanics of memoria.
© Sandra Alland, 2003
(Read comments by translator participants in residence at Banff colony about “palabra/word, leaf/hoja/page”.)