Читать книгу The Unmapped Woman - Abegail Morley - Страница 10

It’s not until each candle is snuffed, shrugs off

its stuttering light so spirals of smoke thin upwards

that the wreck of embers finally closes its eyes.

She pinches a hushed, warm stump between thumb

and wet finger, hears it wince like a swallowed tongue ‒

its silty phrase sticking to her fingertips. She wipes

two soot lines across each cheek as if arming herself

for battle and in the blackout fidgets in a high-backed chair

until stars shift above tree tops, lose themselves.

There’s no squeal of hinges, slammed front door,

trampled feet across lino ‒ just the back of a hand

ghosting from shadows as if sky suddenly fell.

Today voices riddle like woodworm, each larva

gleams, stretches to a long vowel that sounds

like whisky tumbling into a glass, the empty echo

of a spanner dropped in a cold garage.

She watches the window: the glass, not the view ‒

knows crossing beyond it is out of the question.