Читать книгу Swan Bones - Bethany Bowman - Страница 15

Behind our back yard, an alley: Daily beat

of our neighborhood’s resident derelict.

He pursues cans and bottles,

tells my husband to fuck off, sings.

Stray cats visit us here too.

They pounce on day lily reeds,

hunt cicadas in our tangle of sweet peas.

This is not the hardest thing we’ve dealt with

since the move from New York.

Mental illness has padded after us for years,

sometimes purring, always scratching,

most predictably, esurient as hell.

I’ve grown hungry too.

Tired of being exposed, trapped,

neutered, but not returned—

forbidden from keeping jungly garden,

junk cars, busted bikes out of sight.

I want to look my neighbors in the eye.

Sit up front in church. Join something;

the choir, ASPCA. Or better yet,

walk with my shadow man when night falls.

Reason with him. Legitimize him.

Hold his calloused hand as he screams at the world.