Читать книгу Book of Dog - Cleopatra Mathis - Страница 11

Ants Want My Yellow Moth

The one that came to me out of the sea, perfect

serrated edges of its six wings,

each seamless with tiny yellow feathers,

the two bright center ones with fake black eyes

pretending sight. Even drowned,

the wings held tight, a simple knot at the top

attaching them to the black worm of the body.

What fragile stitchery the tide held up,

carrying it in on a wave. I took it to my desk,

arranged it so as to see the colors as they dried,

the veins rising, shuddering with my breath.

But now, this ant has found its way

under my immaculate shack and climbed the pilings,

through gaps in the floorboards to one leg

of my writing table, and up that to the surface

plane of three cracked boards, where it scurries

to the moth: my creature.

Pulled from the sea with my own hands—mine, I think,

because I believe my very will can save it.