Читать книгу Wilder - Claire Wahmanholm - Страница 8
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Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good
W.H. AUDEN
whose eyes have never really opened;
who were born with bitter seeds sewn
beneath our eyelids;
whose eye bulbs glow red when salted;
whose sockets grow tall bitter stalks
that sprout small bitter buds
that crawl with aphids;
whose faces are wild fields, and fruitless;
whose throats are peeled peaches, and voiceless;
who collect eyeballs like marbles
and shoot them around a dirt circle;
who drag sickles across each other’s skulls
and leave wet symbols
we copy onto paper—tales of ancient children
who vanished in a flood,
who stumbled from the spring,
who hid inside a haunted wood
to save themselves from drowning.
The ocean calls.
we
cross
six trillion miles of
everlasting night
we
are precious
tendrils of light.
We
may be a sun to someone.
Why should we
be
utterly lost
