A creative response to The Landscape of Memory by Nicolette Polek
The hollow space is small and I whistle into it, then move my ear near to hear where it goes. Years later, I’m at Grand Central Station, at the whispering gallery outside the oyster bar, where one can utter anything and it will carry across the arches. Soft words eclipse the ceiling tiles. Breaths stretch from one end to the other. I hear a faint, familiar whistle. Acoustic mirrors guide it to my ear. I am an ouroboros of tangled roots. My past is made up of secret sounds.