Читать книгу Death Tractates - Brenda Hillman - Страница 7

That the soul got to choose. Nothing else

got to but the soul

got to choose.

That it was very clever, stepping

from Lightworld to lightworld

as an egret fishes through its smeared reflections—

through its deaths—

for it believed in the one life,

that it would last forever.

When she had just started being dead I called to her.

Plum trees were waiting to be entered,

the swirling way they have,

each a shower of

What.

Each one full of hope,

and of the repetitions—

When she had been dead a while

I called again. I thought she was superior somehow

because she had become invisible,

because she had become subtle

among the shapes—

and at first she didn’t answer; everything answered.

Tell now red-tailed hawk