Mary Ruefle

THE TRANSLATOR

Two insects exchanged information in the middle of the night. Perhaps they were birds, I can't say, more likely frogs, but the shrilling carried far, I woke in my snuggery and did not turn on the bed-candle, four times the information was relayed and came back verbatim, or maybe countered with questions, did I hear you correctly, are you absolutely certain, could you repeat it? And then they quit. A phone call after midnight means accident or death (I have received both) and though I know it may have been a creaturely announcement of love and ripeness (those too) it sounded like dire info to my ear. I lay there, confused. Was it something that I too would like to know or needed unbeknownst to know, something that would infect me personally, if only I knew? What was the world saying, out there in the night? To pay such close attention, to hear with every fiber of my being, and remain completely ignorant.

Mary Ruefle is an American poet, essayist, and professor. Her recent volumes, all from Wave Books, include Dunce, My Private Property, and Madness, Rack, and Honey, the latter a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award in criticism. She is the poet laureate of the state of Vermont.