Читать книгу Oceanic - Aimee Nezhukumatathil - Страница 17

End-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