Читать книгу Swan Bones - Bethany Bowman - Страница 13

A flaming sword would block the perimeters

of our hometown and unlike the first couple,

we couldn’t have been more corybantic.

Summers, constructing clay diyas we’d one day

fill with oil, light, and let loose on the Ganges

or any river wider than the Mohawk.

Winters, recreating silent films in the attic;

if our lives were black and white, at least

lips and violins, muted gestures, leitmotif.

You followed these dreams. Traveled, studied,

saw clearly the forces that shape the universe.

Or maybe nothing so Faustian, but you got out.

I broke covenant, stayed in the Valley:

waited tables, folded negligees. I learned

first names, favorite drinks, tastes in underthings.

The hills became sacrosanct with their cornflowers

and seasonal roads, during thunderstorms, coruscating.

At some point I stopped wishing for something else.