Читать книгу Second Bloom - Anya Krugovoy Silver - Страница 12

As though grief were not enough,

I must write of it. Ulcerous earth

demands my black-seeded poppies.

Women’s names frame ebony October:

Maria, Julie, Ishiuan, Anne.

I want to recast them as verbs,

sink them like bulbs, latent but alive,

and await their allium globes

once the shriving is over.

But I don’t bear false hopes.

My gift to the mourning is winter.

Leaflessness winnows pain.

Imagine the trees bare for your sake,

branches click clacking in the wind

like fluid-filled lungs wheezing air.

Follow my shadow. Pluck the bitter

herbs at your feet, then baste

with them a steaming bowl of tubers.