Читать книгу Confessions of a Barefaced Woman - Allison Joseph - Страница 16

It may have been a hand-me-down,

a dull olive green, but I wanted

my sister’s bike more than

anything, impatient to grow

past my baby bike, its training

wheels, childish fringe.

I wanted to ride in the street,

not on the sidewalk, to know

the feel of bumpy tires over

uneven asphalt, rearing back

so the front wheel rose

into the air, magnificent.

I wanted the speed the older kids

took for granted, rush of furious

pedaling, no hands on handlebars.

Maybe I’d juice it up, paint

it red with racing stripes,

wrap my radio to one handlebar

with a bunch of rubber bands.

Maybe I’d race the boys

on this old three-speed,

winning though their bikes

were bigger, tougher—motocross models,

savage ten-speeds. So when I rode,

I rode, whipping around corners,

dodging cars and double dutch games,

jeering at little girls who still

drew hopscotch grids on safe sidewalks.

No wonder they didn’t help me

when I hit a rock and tumbled

forward, laughing louder as I

picked glass from palms, elbows,

my knees small messes of blood.

Weeks later, when I was ready

to ride again, to pedal

where the big kids pedaled,

I found the front tire flat, limp,

so I gave up, kicked it to a corner,

didn’t pester my father to patch

then pump the leaky tire.

Sulky child, I no longer cared,

my ride no longer perfect or intact,

boasts no longer effortless.

That bike grew rust in the garage,

no one to stir its spokes.