Читать книгу Oceanic - Aimee Nezhukumatathil - Страница 11

Sea Church

Give me a church

made entirely of salt.

Let the walls hiss

and smoke when

I return to shore.

I ask for the grace

of a new freckle

on my cheek, the lift

of blue and my mother’s

soapy skin to greet me.

Hide me in a room

with no windows.

Never let me see

the dolphins leaping

into commas

for this waterprayer

rising like a host

of paper lanterns

in the inky evening.

Let them hang

in the sky until

they vanish at the edge

of the constellations—

the heroes and animals

too busy and bright to notice.