February 2, 2010

On the page, a boat slices water, and the mind’s eye sees liquid parting. But a slice, in food’s context, indicates something flat, whether it be thick or paper-thin. Bread, cheese, tomato, prosciutto: one reads they were sliced, and sees them arranged on the plate.

The heart, too, requires lingual precision. Spellbound feels differently than charmed, than fascinated, than transfixed. The heart can want, can wish, can demand, but still sees deficiency and responds by not requiring. As my heart tacks in search of its harbor, I’m sorry is not the same as I regret.

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