Читать книгу Red Rover Red Rover - Bob Hicok - Страница 8

A partial list of a life

A bird says You are home, you are home at the window.

I put down my suitcase and try to soothe the jet out of my ears

by saying hello to the bird and then nothing at the table

to the salt and pepper. Running my hand over the claw marks

where Sasha jumped on the table to empty the sugar bowl,

I decide five years is the half-life of my mourning

and begin planning maybe considering possibly thinking about

accidentally turning into the shelter in another five years,

though not necessarily getting out of the car to meet

the unwanted dogs. Ten feet away is an X on the floor

only Eve and I can see where Eve collapsed

when her brain tried to run away from itself

but was stuck in its panic room and clawed her frontal lobes

instead: luckily I was there to hold her and turn the fall

into a whisper instead of a crash. Here’s where we light the menorah

every year, taking turns with the match. I was standing here

for “no cancer” and there for a different call

that made me wish I had a hook to pass through my nose

to remove my bones and set them free. Every time I pee

I stare through a big window at a mountain that fits inside

the window like a painting; through that door’s a field

we’ve crossed naked with naked stars; down there’s a river

we can see flash a bit depending on where we stand

and hear samba some when rain has tried to wipe the slate clean

of dirt and all of us. If these walls could talk they’d have mouths

and lips I’d be happy to kiss. A baritone wind

just pulled itself out of its own hat and I know a better poem

when I hear one: wind and crows, wind and crows, wind and robins

and the silences between them and crows.