Читать книгу Renaissance Normcore - Adèle Barclay - Страница 12

When I told you I was a writer

you showed me your one poem

that spat kalamata pits

into the Mediterranean

like a thrifted Durrell in oxfords

wandering the twenty-first century

you took my photo on both coasts

I took your ghostliness

and mixed it into a muddy drink

a monk’s offspring brined in a jar

its snarl tooth breaks the glass—

we’ve a curse on our hands

let’s say there’s a daughter

in the jar like a portrait on a desk,

that the brine reeks of coriander

this daughter in golden light

and dress brings you a rosemary

crown as your father drunkenly dons

a wolf pelt, your mother dreams

of a daughter to ask her ghostliness

questions, to count American bills

under the bed, maybe you’re twins

and with your brother you’re triplets

stuffed into a canvas pouch

then thrown in the gorge,

this daughter who is not a daughter

is a sister, is a spy who demands:

either tell the story four ways

or not at all