Читать книгу Wilder - Claire Wahmanholm - Страница 12

THE MEADOW, THE RIVER

The meadow unfolded before me,

a soft, uncrossable rot.

I tore myself in two along my spine and sent half of me

into the night to see if I would make it through.

I waited at the meadow’s black mouth.

What news? I practiced asking the grass,

the shadows of black-eyed Susans, my boots.

The gone edge of me felt clean against the wind’s hand.

The gone edge of me felt bright and hot.

It was hard to see in the dark with just one eye

but I thought I could see the other half of me

moving slowly across the meadow.

Was I waving, or was that just the wind in my hair?

Was I calling, or did the wind just bend itself across my ear?

I put my foot down and felt the grass rise around it

like a river. Like the way a lover might rise

from the cold bed of one and pull you under.

I couldn’t see anything across the meadow.

I couldn’t blink the blackness from my eyes.

In fact there was no meadow.

In fact the river had washed away the grass, the black-eyed Susans,

my leg below the knee.

I had sent half of me into that water, and now the gone edge

fevered for its brother.

My leg untethered itself, then my shoulder, my lung.

Was it wind or water that rushed over my tongue?

we

had

a taste for

error

and

frail boats

o ye

brave sailors in

an

unexplored

sky.

we

strayed from home

and

failed utterly

on

the shores of space