Читать книгу The Language of Loss - Barbara Abercrombie - Страница 21

What is so pure as grief ? A wreck

set sail just to be wrecked again.

To lose what’s lost—it’s all born lost

and we just fetch it for a little while,

a dandelion span, a quarter-note.

Each day an envelope gummed shut

with honey and mud. Foolish

to think you can build a house

from suffering. Even the hinges will be

bitter. There will be no books

in that house, only transfusions.

And all the lemon and cedar

in the world won’t rid the walls

of that hospital smell.

—MELISSA STEIN