Читать книгу The Language of Loss - Barbara Abercrombie - Страница 23

Come back to me and fetch your busted heart.

Come back to me and take the medications

the doctors said would make you well

Come back to me and save me from

this guilt over not saving you

Come back to me and call your mother—

she’s lonely for the sound

of your voice

Come back to me and read me your

poems—I can read them

but it’s better if you read them

because you wrote them

and I’m only a spectator

Come back to me and take your place

in this bed that I’ve filled

with books and clothes and

condolence cards, as if

their weight could replicate yours

their heft not resembling

the bones and body I slept beside

Come back to me and fight me

for the remote

Come back—let me feed you

Come back—let me rub your sore

shoulder with CBD

in the hope it would loosen

and you could start another day

put on another blue shirt

from your closet of blue shirts

Come back, come back, come back

with your glasses precariously

on your nose; you’d push them

back with fingers you called

stubby

Come back and find your wedding ring

your pocket change

your heavy fist of office keys

your money under the welcome mat

your pens in a secret drawer

Come back, come back, come back,

I say, as I rock my body

into that cursed sleep

Come back through the flames and the urns

the platitudes and the eulogies

Come back and we will all

the pleasures prove,

stopping the clocks and

the calendars

Come back, come back, come back—damn it—come back.

—ALLISON JOSEPH