Читать книгу The Language of Loss - Barbara Abercrombie - Страница 18

When you left me

darkness opened

up at my feet

and I froze

just where I was,

robbed of any

destination,

lonely as the man

in a space suit,

or the deep sea diver

who must carry all his air

with him. I can’t

come up too fast

or I will die of grief

blooming like a deadly gas

in my blood.

What is left here

anyway? The hills

rolled out flat

into deserts, the rivers

pulled back into the earth

leaving dry beds cracked

and crazed

like glazed china

hot from the kiln.

I will not bend.

I do not care

what rules I break.

I will stand here

and howl my loss

beneath the stony moon

until even you

will hear me.

—MARY C. McCARTHY