Читать книгу Red Rover Red Rover - Bob Hicok - Страница 14

Refraction

In Alaska the sun had insomnia:

I chased a rainbow at midnight

south of nowhere in a rental car,

having lost my favorite cap.

As fast as I went, the rainbow went.

As awake as I was, the sky never blinked.

As much trouble as I have

being around people, Alaska agrees:

Alaska gives humans the cold shoulder,

the frozen river, the scary bear.

I love that Alaska wants to be alone, too.

For hours, the world was empty

of McDonald’s, lawn mowers, For Sale signs,

capitalism; it was like looking in a mirror

that ignored my face, that saw

where I really came from, that stared back

at the savanna inside my bones.

I pulled over and built a house

of my affection: I would live there

with distance and mountains

and the intelligence of rainbows,

who are smart to be untouchable.

If we caught them, we’d put them in zoos,

cut them open, try to civilize them,

teach them French, teach them war.

I pulled over, sat on the hood

and leaned into the air

with my capless and bald head,

the bite of it, the hello of it,

and decided to stand taller within myself,

like a swing set or giraffe.

I’ve driven along fracked fields,

where mountains have been scalped

and refineries channel apocalypse

with their forests of pipes, their fire

and smoke,

and while some places make me eager

for lobotomy, Alaska

makes me want to be better, think better,

do better: to fit in. Not that I know

what that is or means. Not that we can.

Just that we better. Just that we must.