Читать книгу The Unmapped Woman - Abegail Morley - Страница 8

I breathe into the lonely snow-lines on the scan,

tell you how to grow safely, how to throw

and catch a ball, how later, stronger, fleshed out,

you’ll thrust up a hand in class before the question’s asked,

then hush, hush yourself before bed.

I tell you about a lot of things: Clarice Cliff teapots,

Georgia O’Keefe, tiny relief etchings we’re making,

you circled in me and I’m blistering in midday sun.

I tell you about kissing at swimming pools,

little black dresses, apologies and apologies.

I say, Be stronger than me and mean every word

and plait your long blonde hair in innocence,

which I regret. I say, Feel safe with lullabies,

don’t be scared of fairy tales, but know you should be.

I say, Opening an umbrella indoors is bad luck,

as are new shoes on tables, walking under ladders, black cats.

I fail to tell you we all fall out of luck with luck.

When you fall out of it there will be a train whispering

a promise, a half-stepped-on pavement, a book’s page

slicing your small forefinger as it turns the page

of the epic novel you’ll never finish.

I tell you about cutting your hair short and suffering

the consequences, and about huge paintings by women

who’ve disappeared; I will speak of my perimeters,

the way I brush my hair, cathedral ceilings

and how they are painted. I tell you, when you exist,

you will be all of these things and so much more:

we’ll write your spine in charcoal, your heart in ink.