Читать книгу Oceanic - Aimee Nezhukumatathil - Страница 17
ОглавлениеEnd-of-Summer Haibun
To everything, there is a season of parrots. But instead of feathers, we
searched the sky for meteors on our last night. Salamanders use the stars to
find their way home. Who knew they could see that far, fix the tiny beads of
their eyes on distant arrangements of lights so as to return to wet and wild
nests? Our heads tilt up and up and we are careful to never look at each
other. You were born on a day of peaches splitting from so much rain and
the slick smell of fresh tar and asphalt pushed over a cracked parking lot.
You were strong enough—even as a baby—to clutch a fistful of thistle and
the sun himself was proud to light up your teeth when they first swelled and
pushed up from your gums. And this is how I will always remember you
when we are covered up again: by the pale mica flecks on your shoulders.
Some thrown there from your own smile. Some from my own teeth. There
are not enough jam jars to can this summer sky at night. I want to spread
those little meteors on a hunk of still-warm bread this winter. Any trace left
on the knife will make a kitchen sink like that evening air
the cool night before